Fading
by Cerulean Pen
Summary: When an honest accident claims Bloo's life, Mac's only choice is to re-create Bloo. But, there's something different about this new Bloo, something empty…and it sets off a chain reaction that no one can stop. Story is complete.
1. I: Fear

Fading

Summary: When an honest accident claims Bloo's life, Mac's only choice is to re-create Bloo. But, there's something different about this new Bloo, something empty…and it sets off a chain reaction that no one can stop.

English Friendship/Humor Rated: T Chapters: Words: Mac & Bloo

Chapter I:

Release

**a/n: **Inspiration literally struck after falling down the stairs and hitting my head on the railing. (Nice going, I know.) So, here is a story that will probably be multi-chaptered, and possibly angsty, and may or may not cause you to scream in horror at the quality of it. Written on a sugar high in hopes it would heal the new bruise on my forehead. No slash pairings at all. Enjoy.

_It just wasn't happening…_

The red-haired caretaker had long since fallen asleep, expecting the troubled eight-year-old snuggled on her side to do the same, but he was too haunted to even shut his eyes. He convulsed with shivers, despite the fact a cheerful flame crackled in fireplace and he was getting an ample supply of body heat from Frankie. Outside of the living room window, a downpour was taking place, rain beating frantically against the pane of glass, demanding to be let in. Typically, it would be the strident thunder that would frighten him from sleep. Tonight, it was the nightmarish situation he had been thrust into mere hours ago.

"Mac?"

The chestnut-haired child wearily turned his head, staring right into Frankie's eyes. For a moment, they were silent, the lanky redhead's lower lip quivering as she battled waves of tears that threatened to spill over from her eyes. The antique grandfather clock in the corner split their emotional moment with twelve strident tolls. Each brought a pang of grief into Frankie's heart, and she pulled Mac as close as physically feasible, tucking the miserable boy into the security of her emerald jacket. "Can't sleep?"

To her, it felt like the stupidest thing to say, yet if so, he didn't react to the dullness of the question. "What if he's gone?" Mac asked near inaudibly, and a lump the size of a grapefruit lodged itself in her throat, preventing the intake of oxygen for a few moments.

"Oh, pal…he's not gone," Frankie soothed, even though she could taste the grittiness as she lied through her teeth. The results had no arrived, leaving her without an answer for the child she adored and desired to comfort. Gradually, he lifted his head from the soft fabric of her trademark T-shirt, trembling, but not allowing tears to fall.

"Promise?"

In an act of deceit, Frankie swept the hair off of Mac's forehead and planted a tender kiss above his eyes. "Promise."

:::::

Wilt felt as though someone was draining the energy from him like lukewarm water from a bathtub, plodding despondently through the hallways in such manner that one might mistake him for another scarlet-furred, ten feet tall, one-armed imaginary friend. Taking on the mundane chores ordinarily performed by Frankie, Wilt sat cross-legged in the white-washed laundry room, soothed by the perpetual swish of the machines cleaning clothes. He folded shirts, pants, particular undergarments he'd rather forget he saw and touched.

The gothic mansion had fallen under a spell of misery, a fog similar to the threatening gray mist peering at Wilt through the windows. All because of the wrong glance down a busy street. The thought sent a chill down his spine, and he bused himself with ironing a stack of wrinkled denim shorts, inhaling evenly through his mouth. The dreadful accident had pummeled his jovial attitude to dust.

Wilt reached for another article of clothing, but a tiny, human-hand snitched it before he could. He tilted his head, finding a pigtailed, gangly eight-year-old staring up at him with glossy eyes, her gleeful grin replaced with a grim expression. "H-hi Wilt," Goo whispered forlornly, tucking the long-sleeved shirt she had nabbed with the utmost care, setting it among the others. She than rocked back and forth apprehensively on the heels of her bright yellow boots, which seemed much too cheery for the atmosphere.

"Hi Goo," he responded, lifting an anonymous, lacy frock into the dryer, "if you wanted to see Mac, he's-"

"Th-that's okay," Goo stuttered, her thin shoulders growing taut in terror, eyes darting nervously about the tiled room. "I'll-I'll help you with the laundry." She remained silent after this, assisting Wilt in the chore, carrying heaps of socks into available washing machines, pouring detergent, ironing, all the while tears wetting her large, innocent eyes.

"Goo, that's all the laundry," Wilt spoke up, watching the child search the laundry room frenetically for another task to occupy her, wringing her hands like she was tying an invisible rope in knots. "Goo…" He knelt down to her height, hands gripping her shoulders, good eye focused squarely on her immaculate face. "I'm sorry, but are you okay?"

Her chest began to heave in silent sobs, tears trekking down her cheeks and her chin an earnest mess of saliva and mucus. Wilt felt on the spot to console her, so he simply let her cry, relieve herself of the pent up emotions that had been spent in scrubbing stains. Goo wiped her eyes on the flowing sleeve of her rainbow shirt, hiccupping too forcibly a moment to get out the words. "I'm j-just…so sad!"

Depression was a new feeling for Goo; even after she had been yelled at by one of her closest friends, this was a raw wound in her chest. If they loss him, it would rock the very foundation of Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends. She didn't want her best friend to live the rest of his life in a melancholy state, and she desired him to stay alive. Wilt carefully pulled her into his arms, letting her salty tears slide down the number one stenciled on his chest. "It'll be okay," he comforted, "I'm sure he'll be fine."

Goo clung to handfuls of his crimson coat, allowing him to carry her into the corridor, his warmth like a shimmering oasis in a scorching desert. "I hope you're right," she whimpered uneasily, "'cause if he's really gone, then nothing will ever be the same and everyone will be real sad and I won't be able to come here, 'cause I'm upset. And is he at the hospital, 'cause I didn't know imaginary friends could go the emergency room, but they're like people, so I guess they are." Her normal chatter returned in the form of anxious babbling.

Wilt was just relieved Goo was talking again.

:::::

Frankie was mopping when she received the call, tripping over a metal bucket of mucky water to grab the ringing telephone before it awoke the boy fast asleep on the antique sofa in the main foyer. The previous night had taken its toll physically on him, as well as mentally, leaving his small body exhausted. She gazed upon him a moment while the line crackled, thrust back into the situation once the news brought her whole world crashing down. "I believe you should bring your friends up here now," came a formal tone.

"Why?" the redhead implored, gripping the mop handle so roughly, splinters impaled the exposed skin of her palm. Worst case scenarios raced through her mind, almost sending her into a bout of hysterics.

"Well, his case worsened overnight. The head trauma was much more severe then the doctors believed, and he has lost too much blood." A heavy sigh, the teetering moment of hesitation that was driving Frankie wild with panic. "Doctor Johansson doesn't believe that he'll make it through the night."

In a single statement, the hours strung on the necklace of fate shattered, smithereens of precious prayers littered on the freshly washed floor. "Oh God," the caretaker uttered, choked with a throat full of tears, "we'll be over there soon. And there's nothing else they can do?"

"Miss Foster, the doctors have struggled to revive him, but the car impacted him in the skull, and the brain damage, along with blood loss, will probably kill him. We wish we could do something else, Doctor Samson would if he could," the nurse explained. "It just doesn't seem likely."

"I understand," the cold reply was, surprising the nurse when the line went dead. Frankie stood there in the middle of the foyer, collapsing on herself, a spiraling series of earthquakes that shook her all over. Grief washed over her in an ocean wave, and she unleashed her fury-fueled mourning in a guttural shriek, accompanied by the snap the mop elicited as Frankie broke it right in half. A shower of wood remnants rained down over the gleaming tiles.

"F-Frankie?"

She turned, seething, to find Mac pressed into a throw pillow, quivering at her display of rage. "Oh, pal, I'm sorry," Frankie crooned, taking a seat beside him and rubbing his arm affectionately, pondering how just to break the information to him. "Hey, we're going to go visit him, in the hospital." Mac noticeably brightened, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "As soon as I, um, clean this up. Why don't you find Goo and Wilt?"

"Okay," he agreed, sliding off the couch and starting towards the laundry room, leaving Frankie in a sea of splinters, trapped in a web of lies she had spun herself. How would he react to his best friend…dying?

:::::

Doctor Samson was a true man of medicine, being the head doctor at Elm Lake Emergency Room for eleven years, dedicating his life to curing his patients. While most were humans, today, he was devoting all of his time to the imaginary friend laying in bed, swaddled in sterile sheets. The blob seemed so feeble and vulnerable, plugged into several machines, a plastic bag of blood running into his stubby appendage.

Doctor Samson placed his clipboard on the nightstand, checking his vital signs: blood pressure low and pulse slowing. This was what he was scared of. He had tried every trick in the book, but there was no saving him. Doctor Samson was forced to watch a life slip away. Hopefully, the child and his companions would arrive soon, so they could say their goodbyes before it was too late.

"Here!"

Bursting into the room with a rather dramatic bang of the door slamming against the wall, the group sprinted in, startling Doctor Samson off his feet. "Oh, goodness!" He adjusted his turtle shell eyeglasses, finding a chestnut-haired boy, a red-haired woman that looked like she was a physco on a killing spree, a deformed, cherry imaginary friend whose wonky eye brushed the ceiling, and a rainbow-clad girl. "I assume you're here to visit him?"

"Y-yeah," Mac answered quietly, before approaching his best friend's side, stroking his strangely cool torso. The beep of his heart monitor was deafening, but managed to drown out any thoughts of loss. "Hey buddy. How's it going?" He talked to him as if it were any other day, like they were carrying light conversation.

Frankie turned to Doctor Samson, vibrating like a jackrabbit high on caffeine. "I haven't told him about if he'll live," she murmured, and he raised his eyebrows. If this day wasn't already strange, the redhead hadn't even broke the news to the boy that his creation would doubtlessly pass on during the night. "I can't…I just can't-"

"I'll tell him," Doctor Samson interrupted, giving her a sympathetic pat on the back. He cleared his throat, kneeling down to him. "Um, son, I'm afraid I have some…rather bad news. We've tried everything we could, we really have, but I'm afraid your friend may not pull through in time." It hit like a freight train that had been around the corner this entire time. Mac actually felt all breath vanish from his lungs. "I suggest you say goodbye to him now."

This was like a nightmare that was unfeasible to awaken from, a reality that could not be suppressed by imagination any longer. Mac gazed at him, slumbering peacefully in his cot that would soon become a coffin. "B-Bloo," he gasped, laying his head on the injured friend's chest, letting the rise and fall lure him into a false sense of security. "Please don't go."

Goo wrapped her arms around herself, tiptoeing silently to Bloo's opposite side. She tentatively grabbed his hand, providing a reassuring grip, keeping him grounded on Earth for another minute. It was unnerving to see him so still, so silent, like a stiff kept alive by a mask providing indispensable oxygen.

Frankie fumbled for Wilt's hand, and they viewed the heart wrenching scene through blurry eyes. _This was not happening, this was not happening, this was not happening. _No matter how hard she wished, it wasn't disappearing.

This carried on through the remaining visiting hours, while the other guests filtered from the hospital, the parking lot growing emptier with every passing minute. Doctor Samson reentered the room after a strong cup of black coffee, having to deal with this situation yet again. "I'm sorry," he spoke, jolting them all, "but visiting hours are over."

"Oh," Frankie said, crestfallen, leading Goo away reluctantly. She didn't want to tear Mac away just yet. These were his last seconds with his other half, his sunshine, his tangible wild personality. She wasn't exactly expecting a cheesy, Hallmark affair speech, but the single statement he breathed threw her off.

"I'm sorry for never believing you. Goodbye Bloo." Mac exhaled deeply, and leaned over to peck Bloo on the cheek, bringing rivulets of tears down on Frankie's part. She scooped him into her arms, nuzzling his neck like a doting mother bird, leaving Blooregard Q. Kazoo alone in the hospital room, relaxing as he drifted away from Earth and was finally alleviated of his paralyzing pain. He would never know his creator had bid him a final farewell.


	2. II: Rage

Chapter II:

Rage

**a/n: **Gosh, thanks everyone for the favorites and reviews! Sorry for the delay, I was in Columbia for the night, and didn't have internet access. Anyway, this chapter has gone under several rewrites, as I've struggled to find the appropriate direction for this story. Okay, am I the only one who is puzzled over the fact Mac never told his mother about Foster's, yet stays there nearly every day? I wonder what he tells her…that's the main focus of the chapter, and I hope y'all enjoy!

Rachel Marquette surveyed the concrete before her, her only guidance two identical, feeble pools of light that simply illuminated the torrential rain flooding the streets of Wilson Way. Her son had been missing for the past day, instead of simply being absent a few moments proceeding her arrival home, and she had abandoned anxiety hours ago, bordering hysterics. _What if he tried to walk home? _a panicking Rachel thought, using her hand to swipe a visible patch in the condensation licking her windshield. _Or, oh Lord, a car hit him._

But it was difficult to concentrate on her worst case scenarios once she happened upon Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends. Rachel decelerated at the sight of the gothic mansion, it's turrets scraping at the overcast, midnight sky, windows blurred by the downpour. "Maybe someone in there saw him," she murmured beneath her breath, parking the car, and tentatively stepping out onto the asphalt.

Instantly, a harsh gale blew her chocolate curls back, bitter tears forcing her cerulean eyes shut. Rachel's hand brushed the frigid iron of the front gates, allowing them to guide her down the cement walkway, outstretching her arms for the doors. Drenched past the bones, permanently freezing with a chill that radiated from her chest outwards, numbing her body to the painful sheets teeming down from above.

Rachel scarcely had the strength to pound the doors, but the wood vibrated under her clenched fist, bringing a savior to her rescue. The red-haired caretaker grasped her wrist, tugging her into the cozy foyer, where Rachel nearly collapsed from disquiet and the weather. "Oh my God," Frankie muttered, leading the half-conscious woman to the living room, where the ever-present blaze crackled in the fireplace.

The terribly-spooked Rachel opened her eyes, finding a scarlet-furred, wonky-eyed, one-armed imaginary friend seated on the couch. "A-ah!" she uttered in fear, attempting to crawl backwards away from Wilt. He quickly came to her aid, bent over Rachel and spurting apologies as he righted her.

"There, is that okay?" Wilt asked generously, brushing Rachel's soaked hair out of her mouth, grinning feebly. She gave a slight nod, already allayed by the flames that sent warmth pumping through her veins, evaporating the visible droplets of rain clinging to her sweater. "I'm sorry, but what were you doing out there in this weather?"

Rachel wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly enervated by the mere mention of her predicament. "Well, my son has been missing, and I had to come looking for him; I was hoping someone in here had seen him. You see, he always disappears after school, but he comes home just as I do, so I'm not exactly sure." She convulsed with a suppressed sob that nearly cracked her ribcage not releasing it. "I just love him, I'm never home long enough to be with him. I have to work two jobs to support Terrence and Mac, and-"

"Did you say Mac?" Wilt interrupted aberrantly, silencing Rachel as she gazed up at the ten foot tall creature in awe. Gradually, she scrounged the courage to nod, leading Wilt to sprint out of the living room like his size thirty-one basketball shoes were aflame. Frankie reentered with a steaming mug of coffee and a fluffy quilt, only to find Rachel glaring at the fire, trembling as if she had seen a ghost rise from the mantel.

"Um, are you okay?" the redhead implored, wrapping Rachel's icy fingers around the cup, tucking the quilt around her body. Rachel struggled to move her tongue, but it only sat stagnant between her teeth, the world blurring around her. "Do you need the phone? Or, do you need to go to the h-ho…the hospital?" Frankie herself stammered over the word hospital, graphic visions of the incident enduringly pressed into her mind.

"No…" Rachel whispered absent-mindedly, shakily taking a sip of her coffee, swallowing forcibly to get the boiling liquid down. "My son is here. _Here." _Her tone raised an octave, shrugging the blanket off her shoulders, allowing her to stand, a panic-stricken sort of smile stretching across her pallid face. "Oh my God, my son is _here."_

"Miss, you don't mean…" The realization struck Frankie like a freight train as she closely examined Rachel's face: the shade of her hair, the intelligence in her eyes, the same quiver of the chin. "Mac?" Rachel hadn't the faintest of her son's whereabouts at the home, how he had visited Bloo each day, how the death had torn everyone's lives apart. "God, you have no idea," Frankie choked, "you have no idea."

Understanding of identical force hit Rachel, stuttering stupidly. "My son. My son, Mac, he comes here, everyday, after school?" The caretaker braved a yes that lit a fuse within the brunette. "Oh, that's just terrific! He doesn't give up Bloo, he's attached to him. He comes here everyday, and he won't leave, because I'm never home, and Terrence is probably making his life a _hell." _She spoke through her tears now, chest rising jerkily. "I'm a terrible parent! I let this happen, I took the jobs, left him at home, was oblivious to this entire situation! I don't deserve to be a mother!"

Before Frankie could answer, although she was too dumbstruck to do so, the chestnut-haired child timidly stepped into the room, hearing much of his mother's rants. He did not have the valor to admit that, in a way, Foster's was a way to escape his home life. "Mom," Mac called, and Rachel knelt down, the boy running into his mother's arms despite the fact she was sopping wet. He awaited sobs on his part, but the crying was done by Rachel; Mac still found he could not cry over his best friend's death.

"Oh, my baby," Rachel gushed, nuzzling his neck, "I should've never let this happen. I work all the time, and I never get to see what you're doing. You've been coming here, here, of all places!" Mac released his mother's embrace, staring up at her in bewilderment. "To a home for imaginary friends? I told you to get rid of Bloo for a reason! I will not have another cruel friend take away someone I love! Do you hear me? I SAID THAT YOU NEEDED TO GET RID OF-"

"HE'S DEAD!"

Her fire of rage was extinguished as her son bellowed these two words vociferously, startling half the slumbering residents. The grief seized her lungs like brutal fists, but for Blooregard Q. Kazoo…for the man she had loved for so many years. "Wha-wha?"

"He's dead!" Mac yelled lividly once more, his subtle mourning now being projected at his mother. Why shouldn't he lose himself in this gorgeous palace of imagination? Why should he have to abandon his best friend in the entire world? "HE WAS HIT BY A CAR LAST NIGHT, OKAY? HE DIED! ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?"

He hardly ever raised his voice at home; in fact, he rarely spoke more then a few words to her before bed. Rachel inhaled deeply before grasping his hand, yanking him towards the agape doorway, much to Frankie and Wilt's alarm after the rather hostile behavior towards one another. "We're going home so we can discuss this. But I ban you from coming here, do you understand that, mister? And you will not raise your voice at me! I work far too hard to support the two of you, and I cannot have a child socializing with this freak show."

The words stung far worse then even a collision with a van could even compare to. Mac broke free of his docile manner, gritting his teeth together as he snaked his hand from Rachel's taking a few, cautious steps backward, eyes reflecting the fire back to her. "No. I'm not going with you. If you can't except imaginary friends, or even _bother to care my best friend is dead, _then I don't want to live with you anymore. I'm tired of it."

He retreated further, and Frankie made a grab for the child, pulling him into her arms. Rachel gawked as he wrapped his arms securely around the redhead's neck, craning his neck to glare intensely at her. "This is my real home, Mom." How could he even say that? After what imaginary friends did to his father? "I'm staying here."

"I will be here tomorrow to get you," Rachel seethed between a clenched jaw, "because it's Sunday, and there is school in the morning. I don't care what you say Mac: I am your mother, you live in my house, I gave birth to you. Hopefully, you will think about that while I'm gone." She turned abruptly on her heels, leaving her son in Frankie's arms, and out the front doors.

Scorching anger filled the crimson imaginary friend, who quavered in pure hatred. He had never loathed before, but, somehow, the raw emotion felt soothing, replacing a void spot in his chest. It felt _good. _Wilt's brain cooked up quite a few vehement comments aimed towards Rachel, but he spoke the same. "I'm sorry," he mumbles darkly, "but that is not okay."

:::::

"And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

He lifted his head proceeding the prayer, shrouded in the darkness, despite the fact it was only nine. A thunderstorm ravaged outside the enormous bedroom windows, matching the emotions within the house identically. Anger. Grief. Mac tiptoed into the corridor, listening as Frankie belted the lyrics to a punk-rock song, her mellifluous voice consoling. Rather enthralled, he leaned against the wall, desiring to be folded into her arms again. Frankie should have been his birth mother, not Rachel. She accepted imaginary friends; she mourned for Bloo; she didn't brush him aside.

Seven minutes later, Frankie left her bedroom, crimson hair brushed down her back, clad in a fuchsia nightgown. She was about to check on Mac when she nearly kicked the sleeping child in the head; he was curled just outside her doorway, an endearing image that warmed her heart. The last thing Frankie wanted was to never see him again. She lifted him up, carrying him into her own bedroom, tucking him into the safety of her own sheets. "Good night Mac," Frankie crooned, removing the backpack from his shoulders to lighten his load.

_Now to find Wilt and make sure he won't go on a psychotic rampage_ _before I do, _the redhead thought to herself as she closed the door with a soft click, strolling down the hallway. He was in his bedroom, still sprawled beneath the bunk beds, yet not asleep like his snoring companions. "Wilt? Come out, come out, I need to talk to you."

Eliciting a sigh of slight agitation, Wilt heaved himself off the floor; he would only emerge for Frankie. "What's on your mind?" She set the green backpack onto the ground, resorting to chuckling sarcastically to convey her emotions.

"That bitch. How dare she talk to him like that," Frankie growled, reaching for the backpack and shaking a strap in resentment, unleashing several miscellaneous papers and pencils. "The poor kid loses his imaginary friend, and his mother comes by, acting like a bitch and not giving a damn about it." Wilt excused the myriad of curses, stooping down to collect the various school supplies littered over the rug. As Frankie continued to fume aloud, Wilt came across a botchily cut newspaper article, squinting to read the headline.

"I'm sorry Frankie," Wilt disrupted, "but look at this." He displayed the snippet to the gangly caretaker, who scanned the blurred paragraphs, her jaw dropping lower with each word. The situation gradually pieced itself together like a jigsaw puzzle, but Frankie was baffled over why the newspaper was in his backpack if he had no idea. Why would he carry this around?

JASON MARQUETTE MURDERED BY IMAGINARY FRIENDS.

:::::

Goo awoke with a strident yawn, sitting upright to stretch her lanky arms and alleviate the tension in her joints. For a moment, yesterday's events appeared to be nothing more then a horrendous lucid dream; the pigtailed girl even beamed brilliantly at the anticipation of a new day. She threw off her blankets, leaping out of bed to find her rainbow-striped shirt. Goo stopped dead in her tracks at the figure standing before her, feeling as though she was moments away from fissuring apart. A pair of blank eyes blinked up at her, a simple smile marked his face, and it took everything in her power not to release an ear-drum-shattering shriek. Instead, Goo inhaled slowly, quivering in the middle of her own earthquake.

"Oh, no."


	3. III: Depression

Chapter III:

Depression

**a/n: **Thanks to everyone for the positive reviews! This may sound strange, considering the story itself is incredibly sad, but I extremely enjoy writing this. Mainly because it's pure fun to put the joy of "Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends" into words. This chapter deals with the Bloo Goo created in her sleep (reference to the episode "Make Believe It or Not", where her game came to life, with the tickle machine!) Sorry, the tickle machine made me laugh really hard. Plus a handful of other situations, including Rachel, Mac's father, and others. Enjoy!

"Oh, Jason…"

The brunette knelt over the moist patch of earth, her world tender and hushed proceeding the raucous thunderstorm from previous night. Flowers for the dead were tragically cliché, for with no fertile ground or proper care, they withered away, once delicate petals dissipating into dust. So Rachel Marquette was empty-handed, simply reading the fading engraving scrawled upon the stone. _"Jason Marquette. Beloved son, father, and husband." _

They'd pay. Her fingers clenched into perfect fists as the familiar rage filled her chest, squeezing love from her heart, slowly but surely. She would not tolerate her son, her gifted, responsible son, spending time with those imaginary fiends, spawn of Satan, heartless murderers. The flashes overcame her, abandoning the three-year-old on the sidewalk as she sprinted forward, sobbing while struggling to pry the rabid beasts from her gentle husband.

_That was when Bloo appeared. _Rachel came to terms with the truth, wracking her brain, recalling the azure dome following Mac around protectively, blathering away cheerfully about his own awesomeness. Bloo had been his alter ego, the wild, unbridled happiness he himself had never possessed. Wretched imaginary friends.

A balmy wind snuffed her spiteful thoughts, and Rachel stood amongst the knee-high tombstones, gazing in remorse at her husband's. She would have to face that horrendous mansion, housing thousands of those creatures. Rachel composed herself, plodding down the damp hill, until she noticed a rather small girl standing on the sidewalk alone, jacket worn and threadbare. The dark-haired child had her round eyes fixated on the gloomy sky, stagnant as a stiff.

"Can I help you?" Rachel offers, her tone teetering between sincerity and vehemence, as she slowly lowered her eyes from the blanket of clouds to stare up at the enervated woman.

"No, but do you need some help?" The girl pockets her own hands, rocking back and forth incessantly on her heels; her expression remains rather vacant, a spark of curiosity lighting her eyes. "I saw you over at Jason Marquette's grave, beloved son, father, and husband. 1970-2006." Rachel takes on a look of horror, leaning in close to the strange young one.

"Why do you know what's written on my husband's tombstone?" she breaths threateningly, not so much as fazing the brunette. In all due respect, it was just an eight-year-old, but when it came to Jason, Rachel would maul an innocent kitten to the death.

"I know what's written on every stone," she answered calmly, "and so would you if you were here everyday. In fact, I don't believe I've seen you before ma'am." She stuck out her hand politely, despite the fact Rachel was far too baffled to shake. "I'm Brielle. It was nice to meet you, but I must be going. Oh, by the way, terribly sorry for the loss of Jason."

As Brielle strolled down the street, Rachel gawked at the void spot she left, processing the lingering questions moments before the child was out of view. "W-wait! Was someone you knew buried here?"

Maintaining her blank expression expertly, Brielle craned her neck to address the quivering woman at the rear of the sidewalk. "No."

:::::

"A-and if he's ever here again, call me right away." The cocoa-haired mother attempted to sound enraged, but her encounter with the chilling Brielle had given her a rather meek tone. Frankie cocked her head, biting her tongue as myriads of swear words pushed at the pink muscle, begging to be articulated. "I have to know. I-I just have to know."

"Sure," the redhead grunted with not a thread of sorrow, reluctantly releasing the chestnut-haired boy's hand, answering his pleading eyes with a mournful shake of the head. If she hadn't discovered the news article in Mac's backpack, then she would've been at Rachel's throat, clawing and ululating wildly. But she contained herself, struggling to remind herself that Rachel was dealing with a loathing of imaginary friends for a reason.

Her only question was: What imaginary friend would commit murder?

"B-bye Frankie," Mac choked out, reaching daringly for her hand, only for Rachel to tug him forward, and thus, in her act of grief, had separated the boy's one true comfort after Bloo's death. The caretaker watched him follow his mother dutifully, as if having finally cracked, and when the front doors slammed, she turned around, strode forward, and willingly banged her head against the wall.

It was sheer luck Wilt happened upon Frankie repeatedly smashing her skull, grimacing at the nightmarish clunk before swiftly grasping her shoulders, tearing her away. A vermillion lump growing rapidly at her hairline, her eyelashes fluttered before she squinted up at him dazedly. "W-Wilt? Is that you?"

"I'm sorry Frankie, but what were you doing _bashing your head against a wall?" _The scarlet-furred friend's voice contained its rare note of frustration as he promptly led her into the kitchen, fishing around in the refrigerator for an ice pack. "That is not okay! You could've seriously injured yourself! I know you're going to miss Mac." Wilt wavered momentarily, absent-mindedly placing the blue, frosted bag over Frankie's forehead. He had been there for so long, joined them on countless adventures, and now, he would never experience the light of Foster's. "I do too. But we've got to keep our heads together."

Frankie cringed at both her throbbing wound and his unknowingly cheesy pun. "First we lose Bloo, and now Mac. Foster's is never going to be the same again." Silence reigned. "At least you have your own bed."

Wilt forced out a uncharacteristically sarcastic chuckle. "Frankie, I wouldn't sleep in that bed if you gave me all the basketball shoes in the world."

:::::

Of all the emotions he had juggled the past two days, this was the first occasion anger had taken center stage, as conveyed by his fuming, chin in his hands, gazing out the window. Rachel continued to shiver, her heart thudding wildly from the encounter in the graveyard, scarcely able to focus on the road ahead of her. "I-I just can't believe you'd go to a place like that after what those…imbeciles did to your father."

"I don't care," Mac muttered indignantly, and he was not lying in the least. Imaginary friends replaced human ones quite well, with their multihued shading and natural exuberance. Especially Bloo. _Bloo. _It felt like he was missing chunks of his soul, scattered far beyond his reach, where the idiom "looks like you lost your best friend" comes into play. Losing his father, he had gained Bloo. What would occur next?

"Don't ever say that! Your father loved us, and he was a good man, and then he was just mercilessly murdered! You were there with us! And then you imagined another one! How do you think I felt?" Rachel massaged her temples, desiring a mug of steaming cappuccino, or even, dare she say it, a bottle of vodka. Any wish for coffee vanished, replaced by the craving for frigid vodka, dribbling down her tongue in gorgeous amethyst cascades.

Rachel decelerated upon arriving at the drop-off lane looping the elementary school, hunching over the steering wheel to brutally rub her brow, listening as Mac gathered his backpack. Her vision drifted to the pavement courtyard of the brick building, and elicited a terrified squeal that caught the attention of even her son. "Mom, what was that?"

Raising a trembling pointer finger out the window, Mac followed his mother's gesture to the lavender-jacket clad girl sitting on a wooden bench, isolated from her rambunctious peers. "That's just Brielle Walters. She's in my class. What's going on?"

"G-graveyard," Rachel sputtered with a heavy tongue, earning only a slight eyebrow raise from the chestnut-haired boy.

"Her father's the undertaker," he answered curtly, sliding out of the beige minivan. Rachel watched in horror as Mac approached Brielle, speaking in words she could not comprehend, but her grip tightened around the steering wheel as the brunette lay a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. Was he truly telling her about Bloo? The freak that knew where her dear Jason was buried? Lord, why even allow a child who spends time with dead people into the school?

Before Rachel could drive away from the scene though, Brielle caught her eye, offering a piteous smile. "Jason," she mouthed silently, and, seething uncontrollably in unrequited rage, Rachel maneuvered out of the line of soccer mom cars. Blindly coasting down street after street, Rachel was not even remotely surprised when she passed the agency all together, and arrived at Big Lee's Bar.

:::::

"I'll pick a special place for him," Brielle offered pleasantly, "we actually have a few imaginary friends buried on the hill." It never ceased to amaze Mac how Brielle was so unruffled when it came to death, although several teacher's actions suggested they were rather afraid of the girl. "I remember when you brought him to class, and he ran around the room, hopping on desks."

"Yeah…" The boy sighed wistfully, shuffling ahead of her to spin a combination into his lock. It was then when he noticed Goo was rocking back and forth dementedly on her lemon-yellow heels, her typically dark skin having paled to the point of translucency. "Um, hi Goo. Is…is everything all right?"

"Please look at what's _in my locker," _the pigtailed child whispered between clenched teeth, constantly glancing over her shoulder as if she expected one of her peers to suddenly swallow her up. Gingerly tugging the grubby handle of the metal unit, Goo revealed the contents to Mac: one azure blob grinning goofily down at him. He blanched, visage contorting into an expression of blatant terror, appearing to be on the verge of fainting.

"Oh," Brielle stated quietly, casting her eyes towards the severely shaken third grader on her right; she thrust out her arms in case Mac completely lost footing. The second Bloo remained still, bordering cheerful until he laid eyes on his supposed creator, leaping right in front of him.

"How's it hanging?"

Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he inhaled once and fell past Brielle's outstretched arms to the floor.

:::::

Nine empty shot glasses glistened before her in even rows of three, her bleary vision focused solely on the miniature cups once filled to the brim with precious wine. She could actually _feel _it in her body, working alcoholic wonders, shooting through her veins, sifting her mind from thoughts, so that all Rachel processed was her surroundings. Big Lee's Bar was not exactly the pinnacle of fine eatery, clearly displayed by the burly men chugging beer, or the drunk young fellows mooning over her.

"'Nother round," Rachel slurred, a lopsided smile gracing her unusually pallid face, only for the agitated bartender to shake his head furiously, sliding the shot glasses into his basin. They landed in a round of piercing clinks, drilling like jackhammers through her brain. Memories rose and fell, all centered about a single crystalline wine glass. A wedding gift. They only drank from it once.

"Lady, I'm cutting you off," he snapped, and, muttering darkly, Rachel stumbled inelegantly onto the sidewalk, hissing at the dazzling sunlight that jovially attempted to cheer her. Sounds and colors fizzed, blurred, forming this gorgeous universe that made her want to both sing and smash things in frustration.

And there it was.

One of the very ruffians that cornered Jason, spiky yellow head bent downwards, paying no attention to Rachel as he walked by. It dawned on her immediately, noticing the bumblebee pattern of his fur, shaping into sharp peaks at his fingers. Flat-footed, only considered to be tall for his bushy main atop his head. Rachel roared vociferously, searching for the nearest available weapon to at least demolish a third of this fury eating away at her like the strongest acid.

An umbrella, abandoned by its owner. Already-hooked spectators could only watch in horror as Rachel bludgeoned the unsuspecting creature brutally, her howls soon drowned out by his shrieks of agony. Blood volcanoes from his agape lips, sickening crunches sounding with every slam of the metal skeleton. Someone attempts to drag her away, but they end up sprawled across the sidewalk with a bloody scrape on his cheek.

It's over. Rachel, perspiration dripping from her neck, blood spattering her wrinkled cotton sweater, clubs the battered imaginary friend for a final time, the ferrule driving through his previously beating heart. The chambers combust, spilling crimson that soaks through the concrete cracks, leaving permanent stains.

Violent hands grasp her wrists, dragging her into a white and blue car that is blinding her with radiant luminescence streaming each time a siren blares. "Ma'am, you're under arrest for second degree murder. You will do as we say and have the right to remain silent. Please put your hands where we can see them."

:::::

Michael Walters pulls the last victim from his frozen cavern of a morgue, the imaginary friend staring coldly up at him. Hesitating momentarily, he reaches over to close his round eyes, mentally reminding himself that there is nothing wrong with this. Occasionally, the procedure of burying the dead begins to take its terrifying toll, and Michael bustles about to find the appropriately designated casket for designated creature.

He finds the letter requesting the tombstone statement first: "Blooregard Q. Kazoo. The best friend anyone could imagine."

**a/n: **Short chapter, but packed with action. *Cringes* About Brielle, she'll probably only appear for this chapter, and only be mentioned a few times; I just needed someone to frighten Rachel further at the graveyard. Sorry about not dealing more with Mac, Frankie, Goo, Bloo, and Wilt; I just really wanted to write more about Rachel. Special mention in the next chapter to the people who guess correctly who Rachel murdered.


	4. IV: Abhorrence

Chapter IV:

Abhorrence

**a/n: **Hello everyone! It's me again, writing the incredibly sad story that is wickedly fun to write! Now that Rachel's arrested for murdering one of the imaginary friends that killed Jason, things will get…"iffy." And since Goo has created a new Bloo in her sleep, one who possesses identical qualities to the original, what will become of him? Special mention to AAE THE IRKEN and Rachel for correctly guessing that Rachel's murder victim was Bendy. Please enjoy!

"Is he waking up?"

The word was vibrating beneath him; Mac gradually lifted his heavy eyelids, finding a gap-toothed, almond-eyed visage pressed to his, sending him reeling into the previous situation that had rendered him unconscious. "Aah! Bloo, where is he? Where's the car? Somebody help!" he cried piteously, recoiling from the three figments to press himself against the police car door. "Bloo, wake up! Somebody call for help!" Twin rivulets of tears spilt from Mac's wide eyes, and it seemed he would continue to rant hysterically if it weren't for Brielle abruptly reaching forward to pinch the fleshy web between his thumb and index finger. His terrified expression diminished into a blank, quivering stare that was, if possible, even more frightening then the previous.

"Calming technique," Brielle explained abashedly as Goo opened her mouth to inquire the motion. "I-I use it, sometimes, at the funeral home." The azure blob accompanying them did not see such, as he was wandering about the car, toying with the various contraptions in the backseat. A pane of glass and vehicle components separated Bloo from the rather agitated officer driving them through town to reach the police station.

"I don't get it. We didn't do anything wrong! You'll never take me alive, copper!" he bellowed, his exclamation so vociferous, Officer Tompkins could plainly hear it from the driver's seat, scarcely clinging to sanity. That little miscreant was driving him out of his mind, as well as the pigtailed girl who refused to shut her big mouth.

"Where are we?" the badly spooked eight-year-old whimpered, keeping his vision fixated on the second Bloo, who was now bouncing up and down on the leather seat, banishing his boredom with the immature act. Goo prepared to ramble, inhaling deeply while twirling a long finger anxiously through a frizzy pigtail.

"Well, I had Bloo in my locker, and then I showed him to you, and then you passed out, 'cause I think you were scared, and I was scared too, but Bloo wasn't, 'cause you can't be scared of yourself. Then me and Brielle dragged you down three hallways to the main office, and Bloo didn't help, he just complained a lot. There was this police guy with a curly mustache that made him look like a fancy waiter or something, but he had a gun, and it was super scary, until he told us who he was. He was _so _strong; he picked you up and took you to the car with one hand! But the policeman won't tell us what happened, only that it has to do with your mom murdered someone, and to sit back here and be quiet until we get there."

Eardrums assaulted with her incoherent babblings, Mac struggled to understand what Goo had elucidated, as well as why there was another Bloo. Gradually, remnants of the morning surfaced in his troubled mind: bidding Frankie an eternal farewell, arguing with his mother over imaginary friends, Goo apprehensively revealing the contents of her locker. Scorching spite ravaged throughout his ribcage thinking about his cruel mother, placing the ban over seeing his closest friends.

Mac hated her.

"You okay?" Brielle tenderly placed a consoling hand on his shoulder, only for him to forcibly shrug it off, drawing his knees to his chest. Generally unfazed, she elicited a sympathetic sigh before craning her neck to him. "If it makes you feel any better, my mom was in jail." Goo allowed her jaw to go slack, launching into an awed imploration, teetering dangerously on the edge of her seat.

"Whoa, did she steal something, like candy from the store, 'cause this kid in my class did once, and he was in trouble. Ooh, I wonder if she and Mac's mom are gonna be cellmates, and do prison stuff together, like break rocks with axes and sleep in bunk beds!" The exuberant pitch to her voice faded instantly once she caught sight of their expressions. "Oh, um, I guess not. Sorry." Brielle shook her head, attempting to give her friend a sad smile in condolence.

"No, Goo, don't apologize," she assured, although her tone did not match the despondency in her eyes at all. "We're just all reacting to this situation differently. In fact, I kind of missed your fast-talking." Goo could not conceal the gap-toothed grin that stretched across her round face, as Brielle blushed pleasantly.

"Bleh! Sappy, sappy, hugging, smiling, who cares? We're all going to the big house!" Bloo wailed dramatically, flinging himself against the window with a visage contorted into a horrendous expression that severely frightened innocent onlookers. "Release me! Release me! No prison cell will ever hold me! Where's my lawyer?"

"Bloo, Brielle's tryin' to calm down Mac, and you just keep interrupting, so SHH!" Several droplets of saliva torpedoed sloppily in the blob's direction as her pallid tongue flopped between her twin rows of teeth. Disgusted, Bloo swiped the drool from his cheek, leaning back in his seat with an indignant harrumph.

"You don't understand. She didn't even care that B-Bl…_he _died, and then she goes to prove her point by murdering another imaginary friend!" Mac spat vehemently, little fingers clenching into fists. He loathed everybody in his entire family: Rachel, Terrence, even Jason, for leaving him without a father. Yet, there was a still-flickering flame of affection for Jason; if he hadn't died, Bloo would've never been created. "I hate her," Mac whispered to them, voice quaking in unsuppressed rage. Even Bloo halted temporarily, collective silence filling the backseat.

Brielle did not try to intervene, with a contrasting statement of _"oh, you don't, you're just saying that." _She knew what it felt like to hate. To have the bitterness clogging your heart, positive that this detesting will be eternal. "It's awful, isn't it? At first I thought I was a terrible person for hating my mother. But we have our reasons." Goo was certain she had never heard Brielle speak more then a few words, perhaps a sentence, and always with absolute tranquility. Now she was practically seething, until Brielle smoothed her hair down, inhaled deeply, and adjusted her seatbelt. "Especially you."

"We're here," Officer Tompkins called from the steering wheel, pulling the car to a stop outside of the Regional Police Station. "Before we enter, I just want to say one thing," he spoke as they climbed solemnly from the backseat. Leaning forward until the incredibly agitated man was face to face with Bloo and Goo, Officer Tompkins gave them a simple warning. "Do. Not. Touch. Anything."

"Do not touch anything," Bloo mocked behind his back teasingly, thinking of all the ways to bend this rule specifically laid down. He already knew that he was created solely to be a mischievous, energetic, and was running with this fact.

Inside, the building was abuzz with activity, navy-garbed adults striding briskly to and fro, communicating through black radios, and several anxious-looking civilians seated on wooden benches. Dwarfed by much taller beings, the four, rather small, figures followed Tompkins until they reached a diminutive room containing two officers and none other then a peeved Rachel Marquette. A steel pair of handcuffs kept her wrists within distance of the other, but the alarming attribute was the vermillion splatters staining her skirt.

"Mac!" Rachel cried in relief upon seeing her son, who crossed his arms and maintained a steadily venomous glare. "Son," she chirped shrilly, swallowing as she struggled subtlety against her metal manacles, "tell the nice policemen that I would never, ever hurt an imaginary friend." For effect, Rachel blew a mushy barrage of fictitious kisses towards Bloo, who had the intelligence to at least understand she was lying.

To everyone's great surprise, the chestnut-haired child broke his furious stare, breaking into a jovial smile of all things. He turned amiably to the two men assigned to Rachel's case. "My mother would never _hurt _an imaginary friend," Mac began, Rachel's hopes soaring high, "she would _kill _an imaginary friend!" Any chance for evading prison shattered, and she resisted, flailing brutally about to escape her shackles. "She didn't care that my own imaginary friend died, and she prevented me from seeing my friends! I don't care if I didn't see her do it, I believe she murdered him! You know why? Because my mother is a bigoted bitch!"

The curse reverberated throughout the scope, and Rachel could not believe that her responsible, docile son had the nerve to call her a chauvinistic…well, it infuriated her past known boundaries. Ululating raucously, she dove forward, seeking to strangle him to the best abilities of her chained hands. The fetter drove into the delicate flesh of Mac's throat, and instantly, the room's inhabitants reacted. Officer Tompkins reached for his tazor, yet momentarily disregarded the weapon upon viewing the scene before him.

Goo and Brielle had linked arms to leap atop Rachel's arched spine, displaying outrageous aggression, desperately yearning to save their friend from the jagged loops sheathing harshly away at his neck. Bloo, slighter in size but not determination, swatted at her high heel, before climbing up to hang onto her sweater hem. Officer Tompkins jammed the wand into Rachel's exposed hip; the brunette convulsed violently, falling first to her knees, then torso. It wasn't until her chin hit the carpet with a sickening thud that anyone dared to move.

"I suggest you take him home now," he said somberly, only for Goo to look up with her almond eyes glistening with tears.

"He doesn't have a home anymore."

:::::

The redheaded caretaker paused beneath the looming silhouette of the iron cage, containing an unspeakably horrible beast that never failed to strike fear in her heart at the daily routine of feeding him. Glistening raw steak in her hand, Frankie gulped as she approached the designated slot to deliver the disgusting meal to. With an unearthly roar, the Extremeosaur bashed wildly against the indestructible partitions, allotting Frankie the opportunity to slide the glop of meat into his cage, sprinting swiftly away.

"That never gets easier," she panted, ascended the front porch steps, entering the main foyer and instantly dropping to the antique sofa for a brief break. Working diligently in the garden all through the morning had taken her mind off the morning's painful farewell, but without the scorching sunlight and obstinate weeds, Frankie was visited once more by her anguish. Draped inelegantly over the furniture's arms, she watched as a throng of imaginary friends moved in a single group towards the stairwell. World was among them, and waved a sock arm at Frankie cheerfully before rejoining his peers.

Frankie smiled unintentionally at the scrap-composed creature she had met in the toy chest. World had understood her so well, pampered her past known boundaries of luxury, yet appeared so frightening when she tried to leave. But his past was behind him now that World had thousands of acquaintances at Foster's. She stared up at the reflective ceiling, reminiscing of her escape from the toy chest, and the outlandish tales her friends had told of their journey.

_Bloo bragged for hours about being so brave, _Frankie recalled, imaging the six of them spread across her bedroom, chattering for hours. The boy and his blobby creation had proceeded to fall asleep snuggled alongside her, all three of them enervated from their previous adventures. _That wasn't so long ago. Only a month or so…man, things have changed. _Thus plunging back into misery, Frankie slowly picked herself up, trudging wearily to Mr. Herriman's office, of all places.

The austere rabbit, of course, was promptly hunched over a stack of paperwork, though he was lacking his ordinary enthusiasm when it came to mundane filing. "Ah, Miss Frances," Mr. Herriman greeted dully, not even bothering to reprimand the young woman for her filthy appearance, clods of earth crumbling in her scarlet mane. "I see you've weeded the garden. Excellent."

Frankie braced herself for an inevitable list of chores to complete next, but none came as the aging imaginary friend returned to printing a list of dates. "So…is there anything else I need to do?" she prompted, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Wash the bus? Cook a meal? C'mon Mr. H., there has to be something."

"That is all Miss Frances, you are dismissed."

Frankie had not come to terms with this truth yet, but as she strolled despondently into the living room, and the clocks simultaneously chimed once, she realized, without a doubt, that Mr. Herriman may've been mourning Bloo's loss the most.

:::::

"Oh, little brother…"

Terrence placed the phone onto the receiver with an uncharacteristically gentle hand, his beady eyes alit with deviousness. The message from the Regional Police Station echoed in his mind: _"Your mother is to be condemned for second-degree murder, and Mac Marquette to be placed under your care until further notice." _The grungy teenager took a seat at the kitchen table, tossing his car keys into the air and catching them effortlessly with the other hand.

"We're going to have so much fun together."

**a/n: **Ahh…*winces at audience throws tomatoes* this chapter was pretty bad, in my opinion. It's midnight, I'm really tired, and it's been under NINE REWRITES! Yes, I modified Terrence's age to be sixteen, old enough to drive and care for Mac temporarily until they can be placed under the care of a capable adult. I also incorporated the Extremeosaur and World (from "Destination Imagination") because they play larger roles in the story later. PLEASE tell me if I'm writing anybody OOC, Goo is especially hard for me to write for. Or if you hate Brielle. Be honest, it's an OC. I know everyone hates Rachel-even I hate Rachel. All right, I'll try to update sooner next time!


	5. V: Forgiveness

Chapter V:

Forgiveness

**a/n: ***Picks up crowbar to defend self* I'm so sorry about the quality of the last chapter. It sucked-big time. So, I'm changing something: No, Terrence will not have custody anymore. Thanks to a review, I changed it, and we'll just see how it goes. Yeah, and everyone is so freakin' out of character. I feel terrible about posting it. I'll be working for as long as it takes to make sure this chapter is better. And I know I was specific at the beginning of this story about no slash pairings, but I'm on the fence about Goo and Brielle…they just seem kind of close. Awkward. Please tell me if this sounds horrible. Enjoy.

The vermillion sun rose at dawn, just as every daybreak, the lavender tendrils of luminescence swirling through Brielle's Venetian blinds and tickling her eyelids, gingerly tousling her hair like a devoted mother. _Time to awaken! The day has just begun! _the radiance sang vivaciously, chiding the previously slumbering young girl to awaken. Brielle obliged dutifully, well aware that the proceeding hour would comprise of her household duties and trudging to school in the monsoon predicted by the sprightly reporter on Channel Seven.

"It's Tuesday," Brielle mused to her dozing calico kitten, shedding her heliotrope button-down and rummaging through her rather disorderly closet for a sweater. Her chore was to confiscate any matter not of floral descent that injudicious mourners had discarded in the core cemetery. "Stay here Buttons," she instructed her inquisitive pet, scratching him gingerly behind the ears. "I'll be back at three."

Brielle strode down the corridor, advancing towards their flat's kitchenette strung in a slapdash fashion between the decorous sitting room and foyer. Her father was reading the obituaries and eating his scrambled eggs from a glass, fork disappearing into the fluffy cylinder before reappearing at his will. "Good morning honey," he greeted inattentively, using a Sharpie to circle an article from his newspaper, dipping the permanent ink tip into his breakfast.

"I wouldn't eat those eggs if I were you," Brielle cautioned affably, retrieving a bagel from the cupboard and spreading a bit of strawberry jam over the wheat. "I'll be doing graveyard clean-up until school starts." She spooned another helping of eggs onto a dish, exchanging the plate for the transparent chalice. "Have a good day, dad." Brielle kissed his bristly cheek, garnering a shadow of a grin as she strapped on her ebony rain boots, shrugging on a plum slicker.

The cemetery's atmosphere was permeated with grimness, as well as the chilling sensation you were being watched, from far beyond human sight. But Brielle rarely took this into consideration; she savaged a myriad of offered jewelry, their clasps rusted and beads spotted with earth. Glinting coins clanked against the concrete tombstones, while assorted candies and jellies were sprinkled throughout the emerald foliage like the aftermath of a particularly riotous shindig.

As Brielle ascended the final hill, a misty drizzle licking every exposed surface, she was extremely surprised to find a figure bent over a cement gravestone. Visitors seldom arrived in the sunup, especially during an occasion of foul weather such as now. She cocked her head, clambering the slick mound of soil swiftly to uncover who was mourning at this hour. Who she saw scarcely startled her; in fact, filled her with an atypical amount of melancholy. He was sprawled uncouthly alongside his best friend's burial site, adrift the gossamer seas of unconsciousness, his spread palms pressed to the grass. Brielle knelt down, stroking his arm as he whimpered in his uneasy rest. "You know that he wouldn't want this."

"How do you know?" Mac whispered somnolently, his wan visage twitching faintly, raindrops cascading down his exposed cheek. "Were you his best friend? Did you spend your life with him? Did you face death with him? I know what he wants." The rubber of his candy apple oilskin squeaked like a used clarinet as he shifted decubitis, brow leant against the frigid concrete. "I know."

"Okay," Brielle confessed, incessantly smoothing her thumb over a wrapped grape sweet, "I lied. It's just what you've been taught to say. I didn't know him; you did. I just want you to be safe, not lying in the rain. No one can stop you from grieving, but Goo and I have been extremely worried about you. Want to come inside?"

"No. I'll be at school later. I don't have much of a choice." Mac rolled onto his side, the back of his skull a definite indication he did not want to discuss the matter any longer. Brielle lingered, watching him stare vacantly at the dotted horizon through drenched bangs, then tiptoed in modest defeat towards the curb. The world was quiet here.

:::::

The holding cell was chilly, penetrating the grungy orange jumpsuit she had been presented with upon arrival. Rachel Marquette slumped despondently against the besmirched partition, twin rivulets flowing unashamedly from her bloodshot eyes. She had lost so much; her heart was as void as the queen-sized bed she had slumbered in mere hours ago. Her husband, her freedom…the trust and love of her own son.

That was the truth that tore her throat and chest raw. Rachel had adored her youngest child to the full extent of maternal devotion, yet had let her own fury and revenge command her actions. Rachel had intentionally harmed Mac. The mere prospect stung like whips against her mind, a perpetual pain that would eternally remind her of what she did. Attempting to shackle her ingenuous, amiable son to the horrible deed she had done. And it was irreversible.

A screech of corroded hinges impaled Rachel's eardrums, and an enervated brunette was shoved halfheartedly into the chamber. "She'll be here for an hour or so!" the square-jawed officer bellowed from beyond the iron pen. "Play nice!" Rachel growled inadvertently at the anonymous figure (they lived to taunt them), then allowed her gaze to drift upwards at her temporary roommate. She had evidently been residing in the prison for quite some time; her pallid visage was spotted mauve with bruises, tresses frayed to the point where one might believe she had been electrocuted.

"Hey." Rachel was a trifle humiliated, being folded into the corner, her salt-encrusted eyes continuing to leak. The woman regarded her with a somnolent look, lingering by the tarnished bench that could scarcely support a housefly, let alone a grown woman. "So, uh, what are you in here for?" Her cheeks flushed and her cellmate wearily sighed, massaging her brow.

"I've been in and out," she replied curtly, her vision latched on something beyond Rachel's sight. "But I was drunk-driving t-two days ago, and I-I accidentally hit some p-poor kid's imaginary friend." Rachel's lungs were abruptly paralyzed, freezing like wet leather in her chest; she instantly knew who this woman had run over. "I just hate that I've been in prison all this time. I have a husband and a daughter, and I haven't seen them in four years."

"An imaginary friend." Rachel repeated it, the syllables rattling like marbles in her mouth, struggling to grapple with the truth. "A blue imaginary friend." The grungy female nodded solemnly, plunging the brunette into utter disbelief, inhaling unevenly as she pictured the night in the living room. Her son screaming that Bloo was dead. _Dead. _"My son's imaginary friend. You killed my son's imaginary friend."

"Another mistake," she mumbled, swiping her hand over her sticky lips. "I haven't done a single thing right my entire life, and now, I've murdered my cellmate's son's best friend. You can go ahead and do whatever you want to me. It doesn't matter." The woman settled against the concrete, stretching her appendages out like a dehydrated starfish trapped on its back. The sleeves of her soiled garments rose slightly, revealing a multitude of scabbing gashes and vermillion scratches.

Rachel was petrified, her muscles stretched taut as a slingshot's string, facing her options with no aid in a decision. She could go berserk and attempt to maim this strange woman like she had her grieving son, or forgive her, release the muddled emotions, allow her past to abandon her shoulders. Rage coursed through her bloodstream, swelling the veins in her wrist as she lifted her slender hand that had once been entwined with her partner's. Rachel brought it down on the cellmate, and…

Gingerly patted her on the shoulder. "It's okay," Rachel assured, scooting tentatively towards the dark-haired female, "I've made some mistakes too. I murdered an imaginary friend…after he helped kill my husband. God, I wish I could turn back time. I lost my husband, my freedom, and the trust of my son, Mac. I'm Rachel, by the way."

"My name is Eliza. I was first put in jail for abusing my husband and trying to hurt my daughter, Brielle."

:::::

Goo strode into the cafeteria, in an abnormally amiable mood. She had just phoned her home from the front office, finding that the second Bloo was doing fine, and she could hear no police sirens blaring in the background. The pigtailed child surveyed the raucous throng of exuberant students, those more intrepid flinging food at one another, or the ceiling. Goo gripped the handle to her lunch bag tighter at the sight of her chestnut-haired companions seated at a wooden table tucked into a silhouette-shrouded corner. It was vital to be cautious around Mac now, as Brielle had informed her that morning after her encounter in the graveyard.

"Hi guys," Goo chided, dragging a chair to sit adjacent to Brielle and began to unpack her icebox. A chunky peanut butter sandwich with raspberry jam, no crusts, that her mother had prepared expertly; an apple, a lemonade juice pouch, and two strawberry-frosted biscuits. "My mom packed me two biscuits, does anybody want them?"

"No thank you," Brielle refused politely, wringing her hands tensely beneath the tabletop. She was quite unsettled over her conversation with Mac in the cemetery, and internally frightened at the potentiality of his depression driving him to a resolution that he would soon regret. Aforementioned boy was immobile, resting his chin in his hands and staring solely at the wooden slab before him.

"Come on, they're really good," Goo coaxed, nudging the crumbling pastry in his direction with a syrupy grin that struck memories of earlier days. "She makes the cookies out of this awesome vanilla stuff that smells like a bakery, but doesn't good unless you put it in the biscuits. I'm always beggin' her to make these, like 'mom, please bake some' and she finally did! So come on, they're totally, stupendously amazing, um…" She trailed off, momentarily forgetting what she had previously been describing. "They're really good."

"Okay." Goo was flabbergasted as Mac reached out, sliding it closer and the shadow of a smile crossing his face. He yearned for something, anything, that would temporarily numb the perpetual ache of losing Bloo, resorting to the hazardous crystal. _Sugar. _The disc of pure heaven dissolved on his tongue, injected into his bloodstream; immediately, he began to vibrate like a cell phone.

"Goo, I'm not sure if this was such a good idea," Brielle whispered timidly, watching Mac's pupils enlarge, jittering as the mineral pumped itself throughout his small body. He would go rocketing off any second now, and the prospect of wrestling a rabid maniac in the elementary school, or worse, beyond the security of the school grounds, did not appeal to her.

With a strident toll that could've made a statue jump, the recess bell reverberated off every exposed surface in the scope, standing Brielle's hair on end. The back doors were practically wrought off their hinges as Mac, along with a congregated hoard of hyperactive eight-year-olds, sprinted onto the playground. "We're going to have to track him down! He'll be all over the playground, like on the swings, and hanging upside from the monkey bars-oh, wait, I do that sometimes too."

"Goo," Brielle breathed, shrugging on her plum slicker and handing Goo her rainbow-striped, flamboyant oilskin, "we've got quite a problem on our hands." With that, the two girls raced onto the drizzling blacktop, searching amongst a mob of children for a boy that was already approaching the edge of safety, slipping into the parking lot.

:::::

Bloo smirked as he exited the cluttered foyer, skipping gleefully into the rain. Now that he had escaped the house, he could wander about wherever he pleased, and had a location set in mind. While staring aimlessly out the girl's bedroom window, Bloo had noticed a multitude of oaken turrets stabbing the gloomy sky. Maybe they belonged to a castle, or battle ground, or other sort of fantastic concoction woven from his harebrained imagination.

Bloo happened to glance at the emerald street sign brandishing the road's proper name: Wilson Way. The mysterious edifice was just beyond his reach, but whatever it was, Bloo was anxious to discover, and merrily sauntered down the asphalt as a dazzling fork of lightening speared the sky.

**a/n: **Not quite sure if this is decent enough after having everybody wait so long. I was banging my head against the keyboard at some points for ideas. I've been temporarily engaged in some personal writing and work in the "My Little Pony" archive and art work. I'm not sure where I should continue after the next chapter, and am open to any suggestions. I hope y'all enjoyed!


	6. VI: Hysteria

Chapter VI:

Hysteria

**a/n: **I'm back! Sorry for the delay, I have two science projects, a personal outline for a novel, a new book on anime art instruction, and an abrupt obsession with "My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic." Anyway, we left the last chapter with Rachel meeting the woman who killed Bloo in prison-Brielle's alcoholic mother. Goo and Brielle go into the rain to find a sugar-crazed Mac, thus, something unspeakably horrible happens to one of the three characters. The second Bloo is heading for Foster's! Enjoy the chapter, leave an honest review!

"Run faster!"

Brielle narrowed her eyes instead of eliciting the sarcastic remarks dancing on her tongue, seizing Goo's other hand as her feet left the pavement. Goo disregarded this action, sprinting even faster in pursuit of the chestnut-haired boy dashing hundreds of yards ahead of them. Why had she allowed him to eat sugar? She was well aware of the consequences: boy, that was a sight she had never wished to witness again. Was it to deal with the pain? Goo tried to understand, but her thoughts were diverted back to the present.

Brielle configured a scheme so that she would not go flying out of her best friend's grip if she happened to gain any more speed. She reached out one hand to grasp Goo's left shoulder, duplicating the action with her other hand, looping her petite arms around her neck. Riding Goo like a toddler who had requested a piggy-back ride, Brielle discerned Mac against the overcast horizon. "There he is! And he's fully-clothed!"

"YES! Hold on Brielle, 'CAUSE I'M GONNA RUN FASTER!" Goo shoved her plastic oilskin hood out of her eyes, clenching her jaws against the gales. Brielle obliged, just as Goo's sinewy legs worked overtime, propelling the girls forward at a speed that challenged the pace of several nearby vans. The brunette was astonished with Goo's fierce determination, and, after a near-death encounter with a zooming truck, had to question this change in demeanor.

"Goo, how are you running this fast?" Brielle inquired against the wind, her soft voice almost carried away.

"It's my legs! They're so long they keep my balance and my pigtails balance out the weight of my top half! Oh gosh, we were almost hit by a truck again! Sorry Mister Truck-Driver! What are you doing? Oh, you think I'm number one? Thanks!" Goo waved to the incensed, beefy man forced to steer around the traveling duo, giving them a gesture Goo dearly misinterpreted.

"Okay Goo, we're narrowing in on him!" Brielle exclaimed, seizing Goo's denim overall straps as her shoulders began to move as well. "See him? By the power lines!" They had left Main Street, and were on an empty road bordered with power and telephone wires, their friend scurrying beneath them. "I'm climbing off now, so-WHOA!"

Brielle slid right off Goo's back, landing in a moist patch of grass and tumbling past the lines. She moaned, lifting her head from the soil and watching Goo square off against Mac, their eyes locked, challenging each other to make the first move.

"Wait a minute…it's raining…that means…"

With pupils the size of sweet peas, Mac leapt forward at Goo, his limbs spread out like a flying squirrel's. The lanky girl ducked out of his trajectory path, attempting to grab him before he could stage another attack on her. His caffeine-charged mind could scarcely recognize her, except as a threat, which prompted him to assail her once more. Mac took firm hold of Goo's frizzy pigtails and she was forced to tug him off, tossing him into the grass.

The torrential rain sealed tresses to forehead, slicked the vegetation beneath their feet, weighed down the circuits on the power lines. Brielle scrambled over the saturated earth, glancing back up at the telephone wires swinging wildly above their heads. Lightning bolts streaked the heavens, only a mile or two away, the atmosphere bitter and static-charged. "Guys! Wait, stop, you're too close!"

Panting heavily, Goo fixated her gaze on Mac, both of them circling the other like wolves battling for territory. He snarled at her with pure venom in his eyes, cornering Goo closer to the power lines, her eyebrows knitted together. "Calm down Mac, just think about this. We're best friends, you're the sweetest kid I know! Think about that time we had to fight against my imaginary friends I created! Or when I fixed your backpack! Look at me for real!"

"Look at me…"

"GOO!"

Everything occurred at once.

Lightning speared the sky, striking down over the telephone lines and dislocating a dense cable from the circuits. Spurting electricity, it fell to the puddle Goo had just stepped into, sparks bubbling to the surface. The last thing she perceived was an abstract blur of chestnut, vermillion, and violet before unimaginable pain ravaged her body. Eyes rolling into the back of her head, Goo fell to the ground, dying embers floating above her head.

Brielle dashed over the hillside, kneeling next to Goo without drawing a single breath. "What have you done?" she whispered, the impact of her words worse than any scream could possibly be. "What have you done?"

:::::

"Are you the maid?"

To say she was taken aback was a major understatement. Frankie could not have been more shocked if the caller was a ten-feet-tall clown with hearts for eyes and pegasus wings. Such an imaginary friend did exist, but he had been snapped up by a young boy who aspired to be in the circus. And that imaginary friend had not been dead. The azure blob before her had died, she was sure of it, yet there he was, clear as day.

"Bloo?"

"Yeah, that's what the rainbow-girl told me my name was," Bloo said with a passive shrug, tottering around Frankie to scrutinize the foyer. "So, is this like a real castle? Or are you messing with me? It looked like a real castle from the kid's bedroom." He noticed the portrait of Madame Foster nearby and connected the dots in a twisted fashion. "Oh, so this must be your queen. Are you her servant?"

His appearance was still like a slap to the face. Frankie kneaded her forehead, muttering under her breath that she must be dreaming or living some bizarre hallucination. "Bloo…" The word was foreign in her mouth and it tasted like blood, the sort of metallic tang of a split lip. The world was coming apart at the stitches. The sky was collapsing in on her. The sun and moon were battling out in the heavens. _Bloo was alive. _"What are you doing…here?"

"I dunno. I got bored. Anyway, servant, fetch me a juice pouch. Preferably apple." The imaginary friend clapped his hands impudently, oblivious to the dumbstruck expression mangling the redhead's visage. "Fine, I guess _I'll _have to get it myself." As he strode towards the kitchen, Frankie managed to abandon her shock in order to tackle the little blob.

"NO!"

They slid a few feet, prompting Frankie to curse her desire to mop the foyer just minutes before and managed to enter the dining room with a supposedly deceased Bloo struggling to escape her grip. When she glanced back up to survey the area, any thread of hope vanished as her eyes met those of Wilt, Eduardo, and Coco. It fell deadly silent, abbreviated only by the grunts of Bloo.

"G-guys…" Wilt's wonky eye was trembling, even though it had lost vision and could not see the unholy reappearance of Blooregard Q. Kazoo. Coco was eerily quiet, her beak seized shut by some unseen force. Eduardo, however, responded on cue, rivulets of tears spurting from his eyes. "No, this isn't…not what you think…it's not…him."

"Senor Bloo is live, Senor Bloo is live!" Eduardo mustered between ragged breaths, fur already soaked. Bloo only rolled his eyes, taking the opportunity to proceed into the kitchen and fetch himself a juice box. He returned to find the servant consoling the foul beast, who was sitting at the round table with his strange pet bird and red jousting stick. _Cool…_

"Calm down, Eduardo, you know it can't be Bloo," Frankie cooed, patting the purple imaginary friend's brawny arm. "It's probably one of his clones, remember? The ones who wanted to go to the ice charades? It isn't really Bloo, I promise."

The redhead closed her eyes, well aware that she was lying through her teeth. This had to be Bloo, or, at least, a fiercely identical blob. He had mentioned "the rainbow-girl", which had to be Goo (she wasn't acquainted with any others who fell into said category.) "Wilt, calm Eduardo down. I've got to talk to…you know who."

With the precursor of a migraine pounding in her temples, Frankie seized the blob's little stubs and yanked him into the foyer. She surveyed her surroundings before speaking: it would be a nasty shock for a group of friends to come waltzing in and come face to face with a ghost.

"So, this rainbow-girl told you that your name is Bloo?" Frankie whispered. He nodded, although he was preoccupied with sipping from his juice pouch and producing grating suckling sounds. "Do you remember what her name was?"

"Uh…give me a minute. Let's see, true…moo…Lou…eh, I've got nothing." Bloo adjusted the straw and endeavored to take yet another sip, only for Frankie to snatch the box away from him. "Hey!"

"Was her name Goo?" she exclaimed, fed up with the azure friend's incompetence. He tilted his head to ponder the question, nodded again, and reached out to regain his thieved carton. Frankie held it above her head as she contemplated the information just given. _If he knows Goo, then that means he must have met…_ "Did you meet a kid named Mac?"

"Mac? Oh, sure. So, rainbow-girl thinks me up, like, yesterday, and she shoves me in a locker. Next thing I know, she's showing me off to these two kids. Somehow, we end up in the back of a police car-totally not my fault this time. Then his mom goes psycho and tries to kill him. So, yeah, I know him. _Now _can I have another juice pouch?"

_Goo thought him up? But how? Can't an imaginary friend just have one creator? Unless…he has to have a flaw. None of Bloo's clones were perfect. This one has to have a flaw. But what? What is it? _The cyclone of thoughts whirling in her mind subsided once she realized Bloo was attempting escape. "Hold on! Oh, man, we have to find them. If-if his mom tried to kill him…and he saw _you _again…"

"I have to protect him…

I have to protect Mac Marquette."

:::::

She could see it in her eyes: bloodlust.

Eliza stirred in the void darkness that was their cell, nerved by the frightening glint in her mate's eyes. From what they had exchanged, she had found Rachel to be a misunderstood, yet kind, woman…the emotion Eliza perceived was nothing of the sort. The brunette shifted from across the space, clambering gracefully to her feet and walking…step by step…

"Rachel, are you okay?"

"They killed Jason…they all killed Jason…you killed him…I killed him…it's all one big circle. We're all against each other. And we all end up dead." Rachel crouched down to Eliza, her smile painstakingly chipper and her pupils on opposite ends of the size spectrum. Her voice was soft though, like a mother's lullaby. "We're going to get out. I'm not finished."

"Rachel, I think you're having a nightmare." Eliza touched the woman's shoulder, hoping to rouse her from whatever lucid dream she was suffering. "Just sit down, we're not going anywhere." Rachel brushed her hand away with surprising force, accompanied with an expression daring her to challenge her ideas. "Rachel-"

"I'm not dreaming. Actually, nothing is clearer. I've got to kill those other two. Once I do…everything will be better. I can be with Mac. I can be with Jason. There will be peace." Rachel grasped Eliza's hand, her eyes pleading for forgiveness. "We have to escape. Jason, he told me…he told me to find them. He'll rest in peace, he told me."

Eliza recognized Rachel's unintelligible ramblings from the funeral home, a place she had often found herself missing. "Rachel, we can't escape from prison just to challenge the law again. Jason didn't really tell you to kill anybody. Your having trouble letting him go. It's okay. He's resting in peace, right now, I-"

_SLAP!_

"I don't want to hurt anybody else Eliza, but if you don't help me out, things are going to become difficult. I know my Jason. He talked to me, not you. Now, tell me everything you know about this prison."

:::::

"You know I loved her."

He glanced over at her and instantly regretted it. The girl's eyes were blazing with fury, a rupture in her otherwise stoic façade, which preserved the fear any other eight-year-old would possess in this situation. "I know." Mac pulled the blanket over his shoulder, maintaining a vigil on the unremitting drips of rainwater collecting in the cloth's wrinkles. "I'm sorry."

"I've heard that word a lot over the years, Mac. Those two little words. They're funny, really. Because nobody is ever genuinely sorry. It's like a band-aid over a broken bone. It never does anything to heal you. It doesn't bring people back. They're just words." Brielle gazed at the wide doors concealing her best friend from view, as if expecting them to reveal Goo.

Another round of guilt made an entrance in his veins. Mac gazed at Brielle for a long moment, allowing the air to clear after her rant. She never failed to amaze him, with her ever-widening palette of emotions that appeared at the most arbitrary times. He could never understand her, which had always lasted as a mutual agreement between them, a sort of accord written by a connection with Goo. All he wanted to do was…

He needed them. Frankie, Brielle, Goo, Bloo, even Rachel: they all were a part of him, fragments he was continually losing as time marched on. Sections that would vanish as the world turned on its axis. Eventually, there would be nothing left. _So why keep trying?_

In a flash of scarlet and chestnut, Mac sprinted out of the waiting room and into the torrential rain.


	7. VII: Comfort

Part VII:

Comfort

**a/n: **Insanely short chapter today. Please enjoy.

The boy jetted through the rain, drops spraying away from his swift form and swirling around him like a veil. He anticipated tears, but, yet again, he had run dry, leaving a miserable feeling in its wake. They were all leaving him, slipping through his fingers like the seconds ticking by he hoped would be his last. Bloo was gone. Correction. Happiness was gone. Half of him was gone, on the other side, and what was left? Some cheap replacement, something that was nothing but a shell of what he so dearly needed.

And Goo. _Goo. _He had ultimately led her to her demise, knowledge he could never live with. The mere image of his best friend six feet under was a blow to the chest, knocking every wisp out of his lungs and every thought out of his mind. He loved Goo. Loved her almost as much as Bloo and Frankie, all three beings he would never hold again, never share the warmth of the world with.

Silver Sharp Bridge was an iconic architectural feat for their town, extending from Crescent Moon Bay to the bustling city. Mac strode on the thin strip of asphalt bordering the road, teetering precariously alongside a cable. Beneath that cable lay a stone parapet, weapons of the Earth aimed straight toward him. What if he fell? Would that put an end to this merciless chain?

Could he save Frankie, Brielle, Wilt, and everybody else?

Mac gazed down at the lethal outcropping, which could effortlessly end his life if he happened to fall. The harsh gales whipped his chestnut bangs across his forehead, spits of rain dotting the rail in his hands. There was a distinct bitterness in the air, an electrical charge that reminded him only of Goo. How could fate be so cruel? What had he done to deserve this?

_My mom's in jail. My dad's dead. My best friend is dead. My other best friend is going to die. My third best friend will never talk to me again. I can never see the girl I really care about. Why? Why even bother anymore? I don't want…I don't want to do this anymore. I quit. Game over._

Mac hoisted himself up onto the thin metal cable, the whine of traffic beginning to fade behind the blood rushing in his ears. He pitched forward and, for a moment, it appeared he would topple right off, but he managed to regain his balance. The eight-year-old gazed at the inky horizon, pricked with dozens of soft lights. The stars…he and Bloo used to pass the telescope back and forth, watching the constellations from the mansion's roof. Bloo would pretend he didn't care, but he was secretly interested in astronomy.

_"Just think, there's all those stars and planets in, like, endless darkness. And we're just two specks of dust in the middle of it."_

"Yeah, Bloo," Mac whispered with a dejected grin, swinging his little legs against the rail. "We're just two specks of dust. But why did you have to leave me? Are you going through the darkness? In the universe? You might like being in space, you always liked space." He sighed, tilting his head to the crescent of white cradling the sky. "I miss you, buddy. More than you could ever imagine. I just want to be with you."

Mac glanced down at the rocky grove once more, contemplating the decision before him. He could do it. He would be with Bloo, maybe even his father. It would be easy. Maybe it would be like a dream, like the split second of terror when you fall from a nightmare. And then it would be over. Blowing a candle out.

The boy stood on a narrow strip of aluminum, braving the elements to lift his head valiantly. He would not go quietly into the night. Mac shrugged his backpack off, holding it out like an offering to the gods. The pack spiraled out of sight, followed by a muffled thump and rip as the fabric tore. That would be him in a matter of seconds. _Five, four, three, two-_

_Stop._

The voice that reverberated off the caverns of his skull was not his. It belonged to someone he had not heard in days, though it felt like decades. Startled, Mac stumbled backwards and he seized the railing for support as the ground spun crazily beneath him. Had he really almost jumped? _Geez pal, I've only been gone three days. I know I'm awesome, but come on. Let's think about this for a minute._

"Bloo?" The voice was unmistakable, but softer, gentler, more like Bloo had been the days he had first moved to Foster's. It was comforting too, encasing his mind like a child's blanket. "Bloo, how are you…?"

_Surprise. I guess there's more cool stuff to being creator and friend than we thought. Seriously though, what was with the bridge? Did a couple of difficult things ever stop us? Remember how you refused to quit when we were looking for Frankie in the toy chest? You're not a quitter, buddy. _A lump the size of an orange formed in Mac's throat, proving exceedingly difficult to breathe around.

"I just…I just couldn't go through with it anymore. All the people I've hurt and lost. It didn't seem like life was…worth living." Tears spiraled down his supple cheeks, faster than he imagined. "It was pretty dumb to think."

_Hey, I'd be just like this if you left. I mean, it's kind of hard to think about. Losing a bunch of people you love. Including me. _Mac's breath caught in his throat: it felt like Bloo was with him, right next him, holding his hand. "How do I know you're not just my conscious trying to stop me from jumping?" _Oh, I kind of expected that. Don't worry. Even if you don't believe in me, I'll always be here for ya._

_Go, Mac. Go see her. She needs you. Go._

:::::

"You may see her now. I must warn you though, she isn't in any condition to communicate and…well, it might be a bit scary."

Brielle refrained from mentioning the horrors she faced on a daily basis; instead, she delivered a curt nod, twisting her fingers behind her back. Doctors had never quite appealed to her, considering they were a major hindrance for his father's business and exponentially unreliable. Nevertheless, Brielle tolerated them, especially now that her best friend's life rested in his gloved hands.

"Right this way, Miss Walters." Doctor Samson gestured for the young girl to follow him, turning around so she couldn't perceive his expression of astonishment. This patient he was treating, she had been with the motley crew that came to mourn the death of the imaginary friend he treated on Friday. The brunette trailing after him could not be related to her, so he pondered how she was acquainted with her.

Room 42. Doctor Samson opened it slowly, teeth clenching as the patient in bed filled his vision field. Brielle skirted past the elder, trotting over to Goo's side, her hands quaking the whole way there. Upon first glance, the lanky figure surfacing in the sea of antiseptic and nightmares was not even human. But, as Brielle forced herself to gaze directly at her last remnant of sanity, she realized the horrible truth: it was Goo.

Her already frizzy mane cushioned her head, challenging the size of the pillow. Bandages concealed a majority of the burns, but those charring the delicate flesh of her visage were all too visible. An oxygen mask was strapped over her mouth, while a pack of tentacle-like tubes snaked out of her arms. Those machines were keeping her _alive. _

Brielle searched for Goo's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. The sickeningly still girl did not respond, much to her chagrin. In this position, she looked so…dead. It was chilling to be in Goo's presence without her incessant jabbering filling her ears. This was the girl who kept her alive on the days she was afraid she would just vanish with the wind. This was the girl who held her when her mother was incarcerated and her father stopped talking. This was the girl who was pure light and the stripes of the rainbow and the stuff dreams were made of.

"She suffered serious burns and a sprained ankle. We are keeping her on life support for the time being, because she cannot breathe on her own. If this continues, she may fall into a coma…a coma she can't come out of," Doctor Samson finished grimly.

The door was abruptly throw open, almost dislocating it from its hinges and taking the doctor out. Mac, his tresses sealed to his forehead and his hands chapped with wind, sprinted across the tiles and almost tackled Brielle. The brunette, never one for physical contact, staved off the embrace for a fruitless moment before relinquishing and allowing him to hold onto her. He was trembling, she noticed, as if running from something.

"I'm sorry for leaving you. I almost made a really stupid mistake, but I…something stopped me before I could." _I really hope he's not talking about what I think he is. _Mac peeled himself off of Brielle, well aware she knew what he was suggesting. "Yes. And I'm never going to even think about it again. We have to save Goo now."

:::::

Eliza held her breath as a guard swooped past her, patrolling the courtyard while the female inmates enjoyed some recreational activities. The tension was palpable, as impending as the thunderstorm on the horizon. Dark clouds swirled above them, marbles of shadows masking the sun and dimming the heavens. A riot was coming. A riot was here.

Rachel had arranged it, of course. Eliza cursed herself silently, wishing she had never been acquainted with Rachel: she was causing nothing but problems. Still, an incomprehensible guilt bound her to Rachel, a sort of reparation she had to pay in return for killing her son's imaginary friend. The name of her son was familiar…it seemed like her Brielle once mentioned her. Strange though, considering Brielle rarely spoke to her about anything.

It was exceedingly difficult to remain calm under the pressure. Eliza had half a mind to just go to the benches and forget all about this. She couldn't though. She had to play her part in this.

Another guard passed her, not seeming to pay much attention to the fact she was simply standing by the stone wall and gazing at the cement leaking between them. Eliza inhaled deeply, spun around, and delivered a swift punch to the burly man's gut. He went down hard, landing just so Eliza could swipe his pistol and shoot rapidly at the approaching guards.

The inmates swarmed around her, some attempting to escape, while others fled the scene. Eliza dodged the bullets fired at her, tears spiraling down her cheeks and her chest rattling with sharp gasps. Out of the corner of her eye, she discerned Rachel at the head of the throng, ululating to a rhythm that made her shrieks sound like _"Jason, Jason". _The brunette broke through the barriers with a fallen guard's club, the crowd chanting freedom.

Eliza heard the bullet fire before she felt it. Gradually, the sensation spread throughout her body, originating from the center of her abdomen. Dazed, she glanced down at the spreading blotch of scarlet staining her orange jumpsuit, not quite processing what had just occurred. But the pain soon came, in a breathtaking burst, and Eliza fell to her knees, inhaling shallowly.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for Michael and Brielle and Mac and Bloo and Rachel. I'm sorry for hating all of you. I'm sorry for loving all of you. I'm sorry for leaving all of you._

The last thing Eliza saw was Rachel, somewhere over the rainbow, her lips forming two words: "Thank you".

**a/n: **Another update, pretty quick for me. Probably because I may not update very soon, since I am SWAMPED. Either way, please leave a review, don't feel shy about suggesting an idea for the next chapter. Hope you enjoyed!


	8. VIII: Determination

Chapter VIII:

Determination

Frankie Foster had never been credited for her excellent driving skills, most likely due to her frightening road rage. Now though, it was clear that she should have been revoked of her licenses or signed a contract with NASCAR, for she barreled through the streets at a speed that defied the set laws of physics.

Her knuckles were snow white around the steering wheel, jaws similarly clenched. Rain slashed the front windshield, making driving quite the challenge, but when Frankie was fueled with emotion, she could jump to the moon and back. Strapped in the seat behind her was the other Bloo, who was armed with a paddleball he found pleasure in swinging about aimlessly. The more Frankie pondered her scenario, the further the gas pedal went down.

_That poor kid. That poor, poor kid. He used to be so happy. Then it all went wrong. It all went to hell. Bloo's gone and Goo imagined a new one. What's up with that?_ Frankie hunched her shoulders, trying to concoct even a simple plan as to where she should go. It was fast approaching nighttime, which meant he had left school and gone…where? To Goo's house?

In need of some background noise to provide a diversion for her worries, she reached over to switch on the radio. Through the nasty weather, the reception was quite poor, but Frankie could recognize the static-riddled broadcast as current news. Just as she was prepared to switch stations, a particular name caught her ears and forced her to listen.

_"…this just in, there was a riot at Kinston County Prison today, which resulted in thirteen deaths, fifty-six injuries, and thirty-two escapees. If anybody has any information on this event, please call…"_

"It's just a coincidence," Frankie murmured to herself, pressing the windshield wipers button with enough force to jam the fob into the dash. From the other Bloo's earlier explanation of the day's events, they had traveled with a police officer someplace and Mac's mother had attempted to kill him. She shuddered at the abrupt image of Rachel even laying a cruel hand on her child.

_Ring!_

"Oh, dammit." Swearing inadvertently, Frankie risked a hand to scoop her cell phone out of the handbag she refused to leave home without. She flipped it open and cradled it between her shoulder and ear, scrutinizing the dark road before her. "Hello?"

"Frankie, is that you?" Instantly cheered by the sound of his voice, the redhead straightened up, a slight smile spreading across her visage. If he was calling her, he was safe. Then again, if he was calling her, that meant Rachel wasn't around.

"Hey pal, it's me. What's going on?"

"Well, uh, me and my friend Brielle are at the hospital. Goo, sh-she's…she's in real bad shape. She got electrocuted. Brielle's dad is coming to pick her up, but I-I don't…I need you Frankie. My mom's in prison. Prison." Hearing his voice break shattered her heart as well, and Frankie almost swerved into the cliffs below while struggling to keep her emotions in check.

"Just tell me where you are and I'll pick you up," she stated gently, comprehending everything he had just informed her of. Goo electrocuted? That was a severe injury, one most people didn't survive. And Rachel was in prison? Though this was no surprise, it must have been a bus to the back for Mac.

"We're at Mill Valley Emergency Room. And…Frankie, I think I…heard Bloo. Not the other one, the real one. I heard him…" The remainder of the sentence was drowned by a burst of static as they entered a tunnel, and the line went dead shortly afterwards.

:::::

For the second time that week, Frankie skidded frantically into a waiting room. Her scarlet ponytail hung like an old mop over her shoulder and her shoes squeaked agonizingly loud against the linoleum tiles. In all her rain-drenched glory, Frances Foster overturned three chairs and tripped over a table. Maintaining her composure, she returned to her feet and searched the waiting room.

The emergency room was quiet this time of day, especially when the conditions outside repelled multiple visitors. A receptionist worked diligently on a crossword puzzle, the intercom silent and most of the patients cared for. Frankie had no memory of ever being here, other than when she broke her arm in the first grade. Where would Mac and his friend be? Somewhere with the phones, probably.

"Frankie!"

Ah, that was easy. The caretaker knelt down, enveloping the small child in a rib-demolishing embrace. Despite the warmth of the action, she could sense the shivers that wracked him, the way his hands clutched her emerald sweatshirt. "Pal, oh God. This just hasn't been your week, has it?" To her relief, Mac managed to find the trace of humor in her wry observation and emitted a choked laugh.

After they finally pried themselves away from one another, Mac took Brielle's arm to initiate a proper introduction. "Frankie, this is my friend Brielle Walters. Her dad works as the undertaker for the…graveyard. She is very good friends with Goo and was there with me when it happened."

The brunette smiled up at Frankie, perceiving a much warmer disposition from her then Rachel. The way she interacted with Mac, she could tell they were close. "Hello. I've heard a lot about you from Mac." Brielle extended her hand, which she felt no greeting was complete without. Frankie was somewhat amused as she shook the girl's hand. "Mac, my father will be here soon, so I'll be going. I'm going to visit Goo after school and I would be glad to give you a ride."

"Okay. We should visit here whenever we can," he agreed, and instead of a hug, he gently touched her arm, offering a rather somber look. "She'll be okay."

Brielle grinned faintly and pictured the Goo that had been the sky, the stars, the very spirit of living. "I know she will."

After she left, Frankie turned back to Mac, touched by their brief, but emotional, interaction. "She seems really nice. And I'm really sorry about Goo. I can't believe something like that could even happen. I'll come to visit her, if you want." He nodded gratefully, and another situation presented itself to Frankie without her even realizing it. "Hey, pal, do you have a place to rest for the night?"

He cast his wide eyes to the floor, the toe of one shoe occupied with the task of digging into the tiles. "No. With Mom in jail, there's only one person left…Terrence. I don't want to go back there. There's just too much…there's too many memories. I don't want that."

The redhead took his hand, already mentally organizing for him to reside in the room right besides her. "Don't worry, I won't let that happen. You're bunking with me tonight. I'll drive you to school and everything. You'll get to see the guys again. Sound good?"

"Yeah, it does." Mac smiled appreciatively, realizing how nice it felt to smile, after everything, after the storm. Frankie took his hand, leading him into the parking lot, where a luminous blade of moon curved against the ink drop sky. He recalled gazing at the identical celestial body minutes ago, while standing on the cable of a bridge and facing the menacing silhouette of Death. Had he really…? Had he left them behind?

_Boy, does Frankie need to trim those split ends. _The voice returned and Mac could picture Bloo at his side, whispering the snide comment. As comforting as it had been before, it was all the more chilling now. He had been attempting to overcome this obstacle: it was growing, becoming more arduous to climb. If he had fell…no. It was better to jump than to fall.

"Pal, you're awful quiet."

:::::

_Creak…_

_Thump!_

Brielle awoke with a jolt as sounds reverberated throughout the core cemetery she had cleaned just this morning. Rubbing her eyes with her fists, she lethargically glanced out of the window overlooking said site and perceived a figure striding through the fog. Something told her it wasn't a mourner. The iron gates had been bolted the second her father walked through them.

There was the potentiality of grave robbers. Such rumors had a glimmer of truth to them: twisted people would disturb the dead, if given the opportunity. With no intention of endowing anybody with the chance, Brielle slid out of bed and shrugged on her lavender jacket. After a second thought, she nabbed a nearby flashlight for both guidance and defense, if necessary.

The young girl slunk down the staircase, careful as to not disturb her father. A person handling corpses needed sleep like football players needed muscle. She stepped into the chilly night, where a silver mist was draped like glimmering tissue paper over every surface. The weather had been quite nasty recently, and the result was nighttime fogs as thick as theater curtains. The silhouette was on the hilltop, back against Brielle.

A slight tremor raced up her spine. More spooked of reality's beasts than monsters under the bed, Brielle found fear to be slowly seizing her heart. She flipped the flashlight on, finding solace in the cerulean beam that was emitted. The image of Goo with a blanket over her shoulders, eyes wide as she recounted a "really super real scary ghost story that really happened", flashed through her mind, providing excess comfort. In this situation, Goo wouldn't have been scared. She had more courage in one pigtail than Brielle had in her whole body.

Brielle didn't blame Mac; that in itself was nearly impossible. He may have made a mistake, but they were all human, bound to the curse of always messing up. Goo would be all right: this was a fact, not a flimsy reassurance. Soon enough, she would be her imaginative, lemon-boot self.

As she approached the form at the hill's pinnacle, features became more prominent in the glow of her light. The anonymous visitor was female, or a male with extremely long, cocoa tresses. Brielle reduced her efforts to reach her, moving with caution up the grassy slope, muffling the radiance in spite of herself. In the curve of moon, she could finally realize it was-

_Rachel?_

A sensation not unlike nausea swept over Brielle. Hadn't Rachel been imprisoned mere hours ago? What was she doing back here? If she lay another violent hand on Mac…let's just say calmness would be dead in the water by that time. Abruptly, Rachel turned on her heel, and, despite her best efforts, Brielle could not conceal herself in time. The jumpsuit-clad woman chuckled, her voice light and sweet. "Oh, I remember you. You were Mac's friend, right honey? Brielle? I met your mother, what a lovely person. It's too bad she had to die."

As natural as death came to her, Brielle felt her throat go dry at the remark. Her mother was dead? And Rachel had brought that upon her? "Are you that lost? Do you rely on the destruction of others to guide you towards the light?"

Rachel began to laugh again, although now, her giggles were somewhat delirious and she swayed almost imperceptibly. "Am I that lost?" she mocked in Brielle's soft voice, doubling over with another guffaw. "Oh, that's the funniest thing I've heard all day! Yeah, I'm lost. I just need to get the people out that caused me this pain. Your mother was useful for something. She got me out of there."

_Is she that demented? She would really resort to the harm of others, just to repay for the pain she felt? _Brielle felt immense sympathy for Mac, who had to live with her every moment of his life. Thank goodness Frankie was there for him. "If you're going to insist on harming others, would you mind doing it someplace else? The cemetery is closed for the night."

"Oh, I came to pay you a little visit. You and Mac were such good friends, correct?" Without waiting for an answer, Rachel reached over to draw the small child towards her, patting her pocket. Something suspiciously blade-shaped bulged from the fabric. "I just need to know something. Just a little something. That freak house. I need to know. Where is the monster?"

"Monster…" Brielle pictured the gothic mansion in her mind, struggling to place where said monster might reside. This clicked as Goo's voice appeared: _There's this monster who lives behind it. An Extreme-o-Saur! _"Behind the house. But why should I let you go? Why should I allow you to continue causing pain for your son?"

"I'm trying to heal my son! You ask far too many questions, darling. I can't have somebody intervening," Rachel said in her clipped, but mellifluous, tone, pulling Brielle closer. She went rigid once the woman's arms came in contact with her own. "I bet you know who's buried here. You know where everybody is buried, don't you?"

Brielle's shoulders tensed as Rachel gripped a handful of her chestnut hair, but she read the epitaph aloud without falter. "Misty Ava Malcolm. Beloved daughter and sister." Before she could utter the remainder of the message, the gray edge of the tombstone rushed towards her and Brielle fell into darkness.

:::::

Frankie stood in the bedroom's doorway, watching the young boy slumber peacefully. His hands twitched occasionally in sleep, but otherwise, he seemed undisturbed by nightmares. She adored him, loved him with all of her heart. The caretaker could easily imagine him becoming part of her family, under her love and care.

Frankie headed into her own room, located just adjacent to his, where she unwrapped the damp towel containing her scarlet locks. She shook them out and grabbed a magazine, well aware she wouldn't finish reading it. The stress of the day would most likely cause her to fall asleep before she got to the lawsuit articles.

As she flipped somnolently through the magazine, a strange noise floated on the edges of her attention. It sounded almost like…footsteps. It was a large house: friends were always up and about.

Frankie relaxed against the pillow, suppressing a yawn. She switched off the lamp and welcomed the journey to dreamland, comforted by the fact she would wake up tomorrow morning.

**a/n: **Warning: this chapter was extremely short. And I hated this one. Chapter nine involves a huge climax, and I felt like this was mostly filler. So, here's a short chapter, because nine is going to be a monster. Anyway, leave a review, and thanks to the guys who did review!


	9. IX: Valiance

Chapter IX:

Valiance

**a/n: **I hope you're ready. Dear God, I hope you're ready.

Doom. Doom was coming to Foster's.

Of course, Mac had absolutely no idea as to what would occur in a matter of minutes. For a brief, but comforting, moment, he stayed nestled within his freshly-washed blankets, feeling invincible. There was absolutely nothing that could harm him while he was under the protection of these sheets. He burrowed a cheek deeper into his cool pillow, listening to the footsteps of the friends above him. They were like a rhythm, an ever-changing melody. This was his real home.

In the bedroom adjacent to his, Mac could perceive Frankie's lilting voice as she sang along to the morning radio. The lyrics weren't comprehensible, but the sound was enough to comfort him. She was his hero, in so many ways. If he had the choice… he would want her to be his mother. Because she was so complex, had so many layers that he was learning to peel back to expose a person that went on forever. A best friend, a mother, a caretaker…

As if on cue, the redhead opened the door and danced into his bedroom, her emerald sweatshirt swooping behind her like a cape. She was smiling brilliantly, her cheeks flushed and eyes glistening. "Hey, pal! It's a great day, isn't it?" To his surprise, Frankie scooped him out of bed, spinning him around like they had just learned he didn't have a terminal disease. "Whatcha want for breakfast?"

"Frankie, are you all right?" Mac inquired as he was, quite literally, danced into the corridor. He was twirled around like the main component of a major song-and-dance number, his chestnut tresses fanning across his brow. "I'd say pancakes, but I'm afraid you'll start singing about them. And I can't take much more dancing."

"I'm just so happy that we're together again. I've missed you so much, pal! I promise, no singing." Frankie set him down gently, ruffling his hair affectionately. He smiled in spite of himself and followed her downstairs, where the imaginary friends partial to the daytime milled around lethargically, anticipating their morning meal. "Hey, Wilt! How are ya?"

The lanky figment, towering over both humans, was taken aback by Frankie's chipper demeanor. If it was anytime before noon, the redhead was as cranky as a soaked tomcat, and twice as likely to bite. "Hi, Frankie. Hi, Mac. I'm sorry, but… are you okay, Frankie? I mean, you're super happy, and you haven't been happy for awhile."

"Hey, I've got shelter, great friends, and my pal!" Frankie exclaimed, hugging the chestnut-haired child to her thin legs with a gleeful beam. "It's just… it's just one of those mornings where you're so freakin' happy to be alive." Wilt, who attempted to treat everyday with such optimism, smiled down at the caretaker with admiration. She had braved the worst, weathered the storm and escaped without taking a second to lick her own wounds. "Hey, mind lending me a hand with breakfast?"

"Sure, no problem." Wilt walked alongside Frankie as they made their way to the expansive kitchen, which housed enough appliances to compete with every five-star restaurant in the country. The young woman swaggered into the pantry and reemerged with an industrial-sized sack of pancake batter slung over each shoulder. Wilt switched on the griddle, rummaging through the cabinets in search of the proper cutlery to cook breakfast.

The doorbell resonated throughout the tiled interior of the foyer, the sound, for the first time in four years, not chipping away at her sunny attitude. "Pal, would ya mind getting that? My hands are full!" Frankie set down the bags, preparing to dish out dollar-sized lumps of batter onto the sizzling griddle.

Rubbing at a sleep-glazed eye, Mac approached the enormous front doors, pushing it open with a soft grunt of effort. Expecting an imaginary friend, or perhaps the mailman asking why a certain yellow creature was sucking on the letters, he was surprised to find Brielle on the porch. She was attired in lavender pajamas and had a huge bruise pulsing on her temple, partially obscured by a lock of soaked hair. "Mac!" she gasped, sounding nothing like her placid self. "I-I have to tell you something. Please, it's important."

"Brielle? What are you doing… are you okay? Oh, jeez, look at your bruise. Come inside, it's cold." He gently gripped her shoulder, leading the brunette into the foyer and, thanks to their almost identical height, observing her purplish wound. "Wow, that looks bad, do you want an ice pack or- - ?"

"Mac, it doesn't matter. I need you to listen to me." Her voice, having returned to its quiet steadiness, became as soothing as a lullaby, even though her eyes were wide with suppressed terror. "Last night, there was somebody in the cemetery. When I went outside to see who was there, it was your mother, Mac. She asked me about the house and the Extreme-o-Saur. And she told me that she had killed my mother." For the first time in what felt like several years, tears threatened to escape their lidded confines, burning her retinas like sea salt. "She's coming, Mac. I know she's coming."

The boy blinked uncomprehendingly before everything rushed into him, an ocean of data that could not be parried or blockaded. Why couldn't his mother just stay put? The law had trapped her like a butterfly in a net. How could they let her out? "She-she… " was all Mac was able to utter, struggling to wrap his mind around the concept of Rachel returning and wreaking unimaginable chaos upon the mansion.

"Who's there, pal?"

Frankie's query snapped him out of his bitter reverie. "Oh, my gosh… come to the kitchen, I have to… have to talk to Frankie about this." Walking blindly, Mac ambled back into the kitchen, where the redhead was busy flipping pancakes. For a moment, he wished to preserve the image of her, in this freeze-frame second, with the morning sunlight kissing her crimson locks and happiness emanating from her very being. "Frankie?"

"Yeah? Oh, hey! You're Mac's friend, um, Brielle! Yikes… what happened to your forehead?" Somewhat frustrated by everybody's insistence to comment on her wound, Brielle nudged her male counter-part's shoulder more roughly than she intended. He stammered unceremoniously, still fighting to allow the information to become a part of his mind. "Okay. Um, what's going on?"

"Miss Foster, I can only assume that you've been playing a major role in Mac's life lately. And it would be ridiculous to think that you didn't know who Rachel Marquette was. Last night, she visited me. Out of prison, into my father's cemetery. And she told me that she would be here to get rid of the people who had… 'ruined her life'." Brielle, façade as stoic as a stone-carved visage, turned her head to Frankie, who was blinking dumbly in a similar manner to her younger charge. "I know that the pain you two have felt since Bloo passed away must be intense. But… I would just like to say that I know. I know some of it. I know…"

Brielle toppled to the left, one hand instantly going to her brow, where her heartbeat pulsed severely beneath her bruise. The glistening room spun wildly and she, words dying on her lips, fell to the floor. "I-I… " She waved Mac's extended hand away, seeming to be invested into completing her sentence. "I'm sorry."

"Why does she always have to do this? Why does she have to keep hurting people?" Mac, instead of sounding forlorn, was fueled only by rage, and he glanced helplessly at his fallen friend. It was as if God was intent on striking them all down, like dominoes. Who would be next? "She just can't leave us alone! All the people…" It escaped from him like a dying animal, a despondent moan. "Do you think this would have happened if Bloo had never died?"

"Oh, Mac… everything that happened, it happened for a reason. Remember? Even if Bloo had survived, things would have been different. Maybe they wouldn't be like things are now, but they would be different. And nothing will change the fact that what Rachel has done and what she feels is wrong. Don't forget that I… I will always love you, pal." Frankie knelt down to scoop up the eight-year-old and hold him affectionately against her. "I know that sounds cheesy, but it's true."

Before he could reply that he, indeed, loved her with his whole heart, something shook Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends. Resembling a minor earthquake, it caused a few pans to fall to the tiles with a migraine-inducing clatter. Heart pounding ridiculously fast, Mac slowly leveled his gaze with Frankie's, the first icy fingers of fear clutching his spine. "Frankie… where do you keep the keys to the Extreme-o-Saur's cage?"

A louder sound couldn't have been produced if a bulldozer had bulleted headlong into the mansion's foyer. Frankie, her ears ringing, crouched to the tiles impulsively, just as she had learned to do during earthquake drills at school. A massive chain crashed down into the floor just outside the kitchen's doorway, and it was then, clinging to Mac, that everything became crystal clear to Frankie.

Rachel was going to destroy Foster's with the Extreme-o-Saur.

"We gotta get out of here!" she screamed, scrambling to her feet with a frenzied grunt. "WILT! WILT! GET THE FRIENDS, WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!"

The scarlet imaginary friend skidded through the swinging doors, having been answering Fluffer Nutter's questions about breakfast in the hallway outside. "I'm sorry Frankie, but what was that- - " Wilt was interrupted by the resonation of another chain being driven through the ground, which almost knocked him off his feet. "Where do we go, Frankie?"

Knocking their exit was blocked, the redhead frantically scrounged for an answer. Mac, also pondering where they could escape to, seized Frankie's shoulder as an idea struck him with the force of an iron bowling ball. "The toy chest, Frankie! We'll be safe in the toy chest, upstairs!"

She stared at him, expression one of horror, before the growls of the Extreme-o-Saur knocked her clean out of her stupor. "Right, right, okay! I guess there's really nowhere else for us to go. Wilt! I need you to go upstairs and get all of the friends you can into the attic!" The lanky figment dashed out of the kitchen, narrowly avoiding contact with the lethal friend's limbs. Frankie followed him, keeping Mac tucked into her jacket, and grabbed the ornately-carved phone that was connected to the intercom.

"ATTENTION EVERYONE! EVERYONE NEEDS TO REPORT TO THE ATTIC IMMEDIATELY AND GO THROUGH THE TOY CHEST! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!"

Not even bothering to replace the phone on its hook, Frankie sprinted towards the main stairwell, tripping over her own feet. "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go," she murmured under her breath, using it as motivation to urge her up the steps and into the corridor. All around her, imaginary friends moved in a solid mass towards the staircases leading higher and higher, until they narrowed into a point at the attic.

Mac glimpsed over the caretaker's shoulder, blanching at the sight of his mother riding on top of the Extreme-o-Saur. Her orange jumpsuit, torn and spattered with soil, beheld the name _Kinston County Prison. _How could this senile woman be his mother? This murderer, this insane prisoner…

And, somehow, the resemblances surfaced in the ever-churning sea of his mind. Not just for their hair, or their eyes, no, the emotions were inherent. He was furious at the world for taking Bloo and Goo away from him. Rachel was furious at the world for taking Jason away from her. In a strange, twisted way, they were an identical mother and son pair.

_Except I don't plan to murder an entire house of imaginary friends, _Mac thought darkly as massive chunks of drywall began to collapse. _I've learned how to take care of my feelings. I will never be like her. _

The floor was demolished with every step the Extreme-o-Saur took and Frankie, her mind anything but organized at the moment, momentarily considered the friends who were behind the creature. As they continued to change floors, losing flooring would become even more and more treacherous. Friends would die. Still, she kept moving forward.

"Frankie!"

The redhead faltered for a precious second, almost losing her footing and falling prey to the Extreme-o-Saur's constantly moving jaws. "God, don't just scream my name. We could've been killed!" she retorted sharply, gripping the banister with her free hand and launching them through a thick crowd of creatures. Her muscles burned with an intensity that ordinarily would have impaired her speed; today, the pain powered her like gasoline to a truck.

"What about Brielle?"

_Oh, God. _Heart hammering away at her ribcage, Frankie pictured the petite girl, flat on her back in the kitchen, exhausted from telling her horrible tale twice. Chills zipped down her spine, nerves urging her to about-face and return to where Brielle was sprawled. Common sense, however, strongly advised her to continue up the stairs, and Frankie just couldn't refuse the offer. Tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, she met eyes with Mac and shook her head.

"No, Frankie, we have to go back!" he demanded, wriggling in her arms. The redhead only clutched him tighter, refusing to lose hold of him in the rampaging pandemonium. Each clank of metal against wood was like a steel-toed boot kicking a vault door. It bled into her like a hot iron onto hide. "Frankie…"

"We gotta keep moving forward, pal. We're almost there." Indeed, they were ascending the final staircase. In just a few long strides, they would reach home free, the attic, the glorious attic. A hysterical laugh burst from her throat, too painful to swallow. The Extreme-o-Saur ululated like a shot wolf, and its human rider cheered along with it. "Come on! Everybody, inside! Go, go!"

Frankie watched, relieved, as Wilt pried open the toy box's lid and the first friends began to jump inside. Jackie Khones, Eduardo, Coco, Fluffer Nutter, Wilt, Iris, even Duchess. A chromatic stream of limbs and eyes, all jumping into the fantastic universe of the Toy Box realm. She shoved them towards the faded piece of furniture, her somewhat sandy voice above the mingled shrieks as a piercing siren. All other senses seemed to vanish, leaving her with just an incessant yelp climbing out of her throat like a magician's scarf.

Eventually, the last friends had crammed themselves into the confines of the toy box, including Never Leave Steve. Frankie, so relieved she could scarcely take the first step towards it, raced to the toy chest, aware of the Extreme-o-Saur's presence. It crashed through the closed door, a pair of pulsating eyes and razor-lined maw; his rider beheld a similar expression. "Go, pal, we gotta get outta here now!"

"Wait a minute…" The chestnut-haired boy scrambled out of Frankie's grasp, stumbling forward in spite of the crumpled planks below him. He faced his mother valiantly, trembling as the Extreme-o-Saur bellowed wildly just feet away from his nose. Rachel, her mind as decimated as the mansion beneath her, almost didn't recognize her youngest son. Before she could order the imaginary horror to attack him though, she recollected enough information about him. Her attention captured, Mac braced himself from the debris. "Why?"

Just as Frankie gripped his forearms and lugged him towards the toy box, Mac managed to ascertain the words she whispered in a quicksilver second of utter silence.

"Because I love you."

::::::

Hundreds of imaginary friends swarmed in the vivid meadow of the Fantasy World created by the cloth-constructed creature himself. The flowers, petals constructed from crayons, swayed lightly in the breeze and faceless animals scurried about. It seemed far too peaceful to be a segment of the gothic structure that had just been eviscerated by a mentally unstable woman and her fatal lapdog.

Frankie carried her young charge through the massive throngs, halting every few moments to search the horizon for familiar faces. Mr. Herriman, who was rumored to have bravely rescued Madame Foster from certain doom, coddled his elderly creator and catered to her every whim. Eduardo was bawling and babbling unintelligibly in Spanish, enfolding the few stuffed animals he had salvaged from the wreckage. It wasn't until she located Wilt that her terror subsided. "Wilt, thank God, are you okay?"

"I-I'm fine, Frankie, but, I'm sorry, are you okay?" The passionate basketball player knelt down and placed his extremely thin hand on her shoulder. "I mean, that was a scary time, and- -"

"I'm okay, Wilt, seriously. We're all freaked out. Eventually, we'll get things straightened out. Rachel can't wait up there forever. Besides, the Extreme-o-Saur will get pretty testy with her, and blood is really gonna fly then." Frankie sighed, sinking to the tender grass below and almost losing her hold on consciousness as she realized how enervated she was. "Oh, God… so tired."

Mac lay alongside the redhead, gazing at the dazzlingly cerulean sky and contemplating his current situation. They were safe from Rachel, but for how long? After slinking out of their paradise, there would be custody battles, or, dear God, orphanages. His friends were gone… Bloo was gone… and, finally, Frankie would move on to greener pastures. That he was sure of.

His eyelids began to sink, his little body gradually shutting out the emotional trauma with another bout of lethargy. The heavens were the exact same shade of blue as his lifelong best friend. Things were getting blurry so blurry he just couldn't understand it anymore why the darkness was closer he was waving hey don't jump my best friend- -

"Mac? Mac, buddy, can you hear me? Hey, wake up! Wake up!"

**a/n: **Damn "Gravity Falls" for making me the laziest person on the Earth. Oh, and this chapter was purposely melodramatic. You know, just to let you know. Next chapter will be the last. This project has gotten too big to handle and I think everything can be wrapped up nicely next time. Hopefully, I'll update sooner and conclude this monster. Hope you guys enjoy this one.


	10. X: Love

X:

Love

"Here's the last bag, dearie."

"Thanks, Grandma." Frances "Frankie" Foster scooped up the suitcase and packed it with the scores of luggage already crammed into the car's trunk. She then extended her arms to grip the lip of the lid, slamming it down with a soft grunt of exertion. "It feels kind of… weird. Leaving the motel after, what, three months?"

"Oh, dearie, I know that it must feel like forever. But, we'll be going back to our real home. Foster's." The petite old woman smiled warmly at her granddaughter before hobbling over to the paved parking lot of Ray Bend Motel, where several imaginary friends were puttering around like lost cattle. Frankie eyed the piecemeal group with a weary grin, glad to see that their playful nature was slowly returning after such a traumatic event. Three months sharing rooms in a seedy motel had, quite literally, forced them to knit together and share their grievances.

"Hey, Frankie."

The redhead glanced down at her adoptive charge and smiled gratefully, reaching down to ruffle his hair. "Hey, pal. You ready to go back home?"

"Yeah. I've really missed the house and I think everybody else is ready to go back. It really is their home," Mac added thoughtfully, joining his guardian on the black vehicle's trunk. Together, they watched the friends interact as they awaited the arrival of a city-sanctioned bus, which would take them to the repaired mansion. After the attack, the citizens of their city rallied together, creating fundraisers and pooling together donations for the imaginary friends. His own teacher, Leslie Montoya, had headed one of the major benefits, kicking it off with the poignant slogan: "Imaginary friends are people, too!"

"I know. It's the place I grew up in. I thought about moving us for awhile, but… everyone put so much thought into this. People gave us money. They actually cared about what happened to us. And this is my real home. With you, Grandma, even Funny Bunny. It's where we belong." A horn sounded somewhere nearby, jolting Frankie from her heartfelt spiel about Foster's. "Oh, that must be the bus they sent. Hold on, lemme just… I've gotta get a thousand friends on one bus…"

"Hey, guys!" A pigtailed girl with a pale scar running down one freckled cheek skipped up the parking lot's entrance, her lemon yellow boots clacking. "Oh, my gosh, I can't believe it's already been three months and you're finally going back to Foster's, it's been, like, forever since you've been there, 'cause time feels really, _really _slow when you're waiting for something and it musta felt like eternity to you guys, but now you're going back, so… yay!" Grateful for a conclusion to her ramblings, the pair hauled themselves back to their feet, following her out to the concrete strips bordering the lot.

"I've gotta surprise for you two! Well, really, it's for everyone, but I know you really, really missed the house, so it'll be really awesome for you and everyone else too. My mom and I did it, 'cause she's an art teacher and I have paints and stuff, and we got some people at school to paint some too, and it's really cool!" Goo declared, the cicatrized wound on her visage blanching as she grew excited.

The hulking vehicle powered down the road, the first object to catch Frankie's eye amongst a glass and gray world. Her jaw slackened, almost reaching the ground as she stared, in utter shock, at the bus maneuvering through midday traffic. It was as bright and ostentatious as the vehicle destroyed in the disaster, if not somewhat more colorful. Swaths of chromatic curlicues and waves wound themselves across the metal exterior, all surrounding a familiar logo: Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends.

"You-you painted that… for us?" Frankie asked incredulously, her gaze fixated on the token of generosity. Goo nodded proudly, prepared to launch into another tirade when a pair of arms seized her middle, bringing her gangly body towards another. An affectionate kiss was planted on her cheek, easier to do after a growth spurt had almost matched their heights.

She was a girl in love. Mac Marquette had finally kissed her, and, this time, the electricity seemed to make her feel alive.

::::::

They stood, the last few not to stampede into the house, at the iron wrought gates, mystified by how little had changed about the mansion. Every window, every turret, balcony, and fixture, it was there, almost untouched, and the roof was going to last a few years longer before kicking the bucket. Frankie placed a hand on the cool metal gate, transfixed by the similitude it bore to her childhood home. No- - it _was _her childhood home. "It hasn't changed at all…"

"I told you! Everybody did a super awesome job on the house, 'cause they had a bunch of pictures and they wanted to build it the exact same, which is almost impossible, but, look, they did it!" Goo twirled spontaneously, her denim skirt fluttering around her sinewy legs and stirring clouds of soil. Upon recognizing this was a time for quiet reflection, she paused and directed her gaze to the structure's pinnacle. Her cocoa eyes become distant, almost dreamy. "It's almost the same…"

A pang of grief interrupted Mac's surprise over the house. The memory of Bloo surfaced, just as vivid as it had been the day of the accident. But… somehow, the agony had dwindled as time marched wearily on. So many things had occurred in the time frame between then and now. His eyes widened in disbelief at the realization that, once dangling just above him, came crashing down.

Mac was moving on.

Not just from Bloo. From Rachel, from Jason, from Brielle. From suicide and fear and regret. There was nothing to feel remorse over anymore, nothing to mourn. He had a reason to wake up every morning, people to love, and even minor joys, like sunsets or a good sugar-free ice cream cone, alleviated some of the pain. This house, this house he had learned to call home in the past year, had been shattered, just as he had. But it had also been lovingly reconstructed.

"Mac? You coming?"

He swallowed and glanced at Frankie. "Actually… there's someplace else I want to go."

::::::

Three figures stood at the base of a hilltop, their silhouettes winding surreally across the arrangement of headstones as the sun gratefully descended in the sky. Bouquets of flowers were clutched in their hands: even though it was horribly clichéd, it felt like the right decision.

Goo immediately strode to the marble grave near the tiny patch of wildflowers, her head lowered respectively. The headstone was placid and did not draw attention to itself, just as Brielle had been, but something about the flecks of copper attracted your eye a moment longer. She knelt down to lay the violets (her favorite) down; her fingers instantly tugged a blade of grass out to finger as she spoke. "Brielle, you were the bestest friend in the whole wide world. You never thought I was weird or… stupid, and always listened to me, even when I talked way too much and when I accidentally dyed your hair green that one time. You were so nice and, what's that word, generous and you knew the answer to everything. I really, really miss you and I wish I could see you again, but I guess that you're really happy up in Heaven with your mom. I hope that Heaven has all the fun stuff Earth had, like funny movies and jelly beans and roller coasters. See you later, Brielle."

Mac almost followed up her eulogy, but there were no words that could compare to Goo's beautifully simple speech. It wasn't even a speech: it was just Goo, her words always there to describe everyone's exact emotions. Instead, he smiled grimly at the girl, bent over Brielle's grave and still fiddling with the grass. Goo was moving on, too.

He stepped up to his parents' graves, which were spaced equally apart and, sadly, were just five years apart. Roses for his mother; irises for his father. "You guys, I wish I knew what to say. I didn't get to know you for a long time, Dad, and for awhile, I was angry at you for leaving, but I've figured out that it's just how life works. It makes something terrible happen and then, sometime in the future, it makes everything else work out. Without you, I would have never had Bloo. So… thanks. Um, Mom? I really don't know what to say to you, either. I mean, you tried to kill me and my friends and… but, I can't change any of that now, can I? I miss the old you, though. You were so kind and caring, and I guess grief can make nice people do terrible things. I know. I know we're pretty much the same… so, to both of you, goodbye. I hope you got to see each other again."

Frankie, fighting tears tooth and nail, watched with a warm smile as Goo and Mac rejoined her, holding hands for dear life. She approached Bloo's tombstone, dropping a bundle of daises. "Hey, Blooregard. I found your fireworks under your bed. I bet you were planning to blow Herriman's office across the county. Good, I would have joined you. I'm sorry if I ever really hurt you, even if you deserved it. You were a troublemaker and so was I. You may be gone, but who can forget all that stuff you got us into? Cookie selling, paintball fights, joy rides. God, you weren't just alive- - you lived. See ya, Bloo."

The girls both stepped to the side, opening a path for Mac as he crouched down to his best friend's tomb. He reached slowly, methodically, into his backpack and withdrew something that caused a strangled giggle to escape Frankie's throat. Glinting against the dying sunlight was a brand new paddleball. The boy laid it down, a smile forming on his lips.

"It works, buddy. I checked."

::::::

The night was merry, a delightful change from the solemn atmosphere that had cloaked them for so long. A banquet had been prepared for them, much to Frankie's relief, and a few bottles of champagne were popped open (for grandmothers, rabbit presidents, and redheaded caretakers only). Memories of departed friends were exchanged, but it was not a somber affair. They relished these recollections, laughed and nudged one another good-naturedly. Everything was as perfect as it should have been.

Eventually, the friends, exhausted, parted ways to retire to bed. Frankie performed her nighttime ritual as if they had never left: tucking younger friends in, reading story after story, kissing the heads of stuffed animals. Now though, she was rewarded with an earnest "thank you" every time.

The redhead entered the living room with a yawn, collapsing alongside her brunette charge on the sofa. A cheerful fire crackled in the hearth, embers popping to an unknown melody. "Hey, pal. How are you?"

"Tired," Mac admitted, leaning against Frankie's arm and practically melting as a wave of her body heat enveloped his diminutive frame. "But happy. I've been waiting for this day for so long. I finally decided… well, I finally moved on. I was just standing there, looking at the house, and I realized I had moved on."

"I'm so proud of you, pal," she whispered, drawing him affectionately into her arms and pressing his cheek against her own. He did not paw at her in humiliation, crying to be freed; instead, he listened intently to her pulse, ensuring it never halted, never ceased. Somehow, they both succumbed to slumber on that couch, Mac still gripped by Frankie like an oversized teddy bear.

But, he was jolted awake by the twelve strident tolls of the grandfather clock and, before resuming his dream, Mac stared into the flames for a moment. He had been here before, three months ago: the fireplace, Frankie by his side, prepared for sleep. There was no fear or frustration, but rather a sense of security that lulled him back into a dream where Brielle and Bloo were sitting together in the clouds, paddleballs in hand, their laughter ebbing and ricocheting until it was just one joyous sound, resonating into eternity.

**a/n: ***Blinks* Is it over? Sorry for keeping you waiting so long, but I was so unmotivated for so long, until tonight and I was like "I haven't slept in three days, I'm going to write this story to hell!" So. It's over. Sorry if you didn't like the ending. I didn't either. Tried to tie up everything nicely and make it very cheesy. I enjoy cheese. I can't even form a coherent sentence. Oh, well. Merry Christmas! *flies into sun*


End file.
